and then he became infinite and his story wasn’t true but it was true enough to last, to make me hurt, to show me people, the ugly ones that are never in movies, falling in love as he is giving them a song and making magical music out of two pianos, one for rich one for poor, but if you don’t know what it is, it’s jazz and it’s the truth even the lies of it all like born lived died on a boat, never a foot on land except a frozen moment between two worlds… or a trip around a storm-tossed ballroom, the piano on castors and the music moving everything else aside, even fear… or music during the war when no one danced… or a cigarette lit with hot piano strings… and fuck the regulations and know that it will never be the same music twice even if he plays all the notes perfectly, for the way he holds his hands, the way his smirk catches, head twists, eyes soften, all changes, for emotion changes and emotion is a kind of music that he played till those strings ached, heartwires softening with the heat and there were 88 keys, no more, never less, all those blacks and whites ending because he feared the neverending and then he became infinite