Stolen Moments

A first kiss, The gentle squeak of cork rubbing against glass as you twist open a bottle of Woodford's Reserve, the crackle of fresh ice cubes as the whiskey splashes down upon them, the plaintive wails of a saxophone on "Stolen Moments," over a bed of piano, the beach at dawn, the inner thighs of a 16 year old girl, a drop of blood running down the back of a runaway slave, born again in the vocal chords of an inner city youth, a pithy aside spoken to no one but felt deep inside while a cool breeze blows on a city rooftop on a hot summer night. Gazing out at the millions of lights and feeling inescably alone as you recant the idealistic testimony of adolesence in favor battle tested truths, mostly bittersweet, like the relief that is the reward for those things we've paid the price for. The embers of a campfire, crackling into space as you sit, mesmerized by the simplicity of it all.