Often noon lights upon the windows aerie, and the day speaks in somber tones. Time and time again, little notes plucked from an instrument of opportunity. Since days passed and eons belonged in old books, overall draped cousins spent their days whiling away hours, smoking cherry tobacco out of corn cob pipes. The subtle hum of friends, a light warmth permeating the air. This is what jazz speaks of. Baby got the blues in his soul.