I notice, as we discuss applied empathy as a component in the jazz, the inaccessible top floors of ancient history overlooking the Seine; tall gardens wave on that Belle Epoque' rampart. The traffic's sound from there is softer than the blood in your ears, I think. The sunset appears to endow the sheer-curtained rooms with amber; the mirror of the moon rises to partner in the image. The view is a classic dance of hands at the piano: the slow ascending note of the moon, underpinned by the swooning notes of curtains in the evening wind.
It's a venture into inestimable beauty without a promise of an end, this place. So we are nesting, making a structural shell of everything found and collected. The method manual on the jazz grows over strong coffee. We're writing, reciting, catching every reading, scouting the streets in preparation for performances, killing baguettes like it's our job. Days of museums on the horizon. That Belle Epoque' rampart.