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In the dark garage,
the music flows openly.
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Each of them brings what they can, within the strict limits
of their skills and knowledge,
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and they come together
in a gloriously imperfect attempt
at improvised creation.
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The small strong man
sits at an electric keyboard,
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struggling to keep up
with the chord changes,
but rejoicing in the effort.
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The tall one
plays the electric bass
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with the same calm
and laid back attitude
that he showed
in his steps.
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The long hair man
plays the classical guitar,
hooked up to an amplifier,
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and tries to keep them
all together through
hand gestures
and verbal cues.
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And he,
the youngest of all,
plays the flute,
and he plays melodies
that he has known for years
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and mixes them with strange new riffs that he has never played or heard before.
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The group stumbles its way
through many songs,
and as the song forms
break apart,
they slide into endless loops
that appear to go on forever. |
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In the sweat of the closed garage,
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the eternal cycles coalesce
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around the bell
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that now rings louder than ever.
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