Christopher Zamorsky, as he himself used to sign himself from 1958 until his death, is unfortunately not a well-known figure to Polish readers. Even among the "sophisticated" and "cultured" elite who occasionally visit the United States, he is associated with yet another Polish emigrant who crossed the ocean for bread and freedom. This statement is sad, especially considering the recognition and esteem in which this legendary figure is held by those associated with the free jazz community.
However, as one might infer from the above paragraph, the author of this foreword is not intended to boast about his knowledge of the musical avant-garde of New York in the 1960s. It would be tactless, idolatrous, and foolish for the undersigned to claim to be a so-called "expert" in this field. It is merely a coincidence that you, dear reader, are reading these words. This online publication is merely a somewhat clumsy attempt to bring to Poland the limited (not counting press articles) yet qualitatively outstanding work of our forgotten compatriot. The story below is essentially only an imperfect sketch of a larger whole, a novel written fifteen years ago, yet still drifting between publishers, full of concerns not about the work's artistic but rather its commercial value.
Krzysztof Zamorski was born in August 1934. While Maxim Gorky was proclaiming the doctrinal tenets of socialist realism, Elżbieta Zamorska (English, real name Elizabeth Bishop-Zamorsky) painfully gave birth to a man who would contradict them throughout his life and work. Thus, our hero was born in Lviv, to a wealthy family – his father, Tadeusz, was a Polish nobleman of ancient lineage (and date), and his mother the heiress to considerable fortunes in Great Britain. If it weren't for the fact that little Chris was the second son of a British matron—and the less popular one at that—he would surely have settled there, near Leeds, in his grandfather's old English manor house (in the Victorian style), for the rest of his life.
Fate dealt cruelly to his family on the eve (literally) of war. On August 31, 1939, his father died after accidentally falling from a cliff on the west coast of England, where the Zamorski family was temporarily staying. They were never allowed to return to their homeland. The two brothers, Chris and Mark, moved with their mother to London with her friend, Eleanor Ausby. There, they both took lessons in literature, philosophy, piano, and various sciences, which served as a way to escape the pain of losing their father. Overall, they both received a fairly good and thorough education.
Meanwhile, conflict within the family was growing between Christopher and his mother, who ostentatiously prioritized Mark's affairs over his brother's. Around 1951, our hero encountered classical jazz and began playing trumpet in Eleanor Rigby's (later Freddie Freeloader) ephemeral band. From then on, music captivated him, and he devoted himself to it completely. His earlier piano lessons were initially helpful, but the jazz formula proved far more encompassing than the formula of European music, which had hardened into the form known to this day. It was then that he also came to hate the class to which he belonged, and with it the entire social system prevailing in England. The narrow, conservative views of the "elite" filled him with disgust; he fell in love with classical jazz but never played "classically." He had always been an innovator, a rebel against the ossification of culture. He disliked the aristocracy because its very institution fettered his mind, which yearned for the "expanse of freedom." A visible rift developed between him and the rest of his family, especially his old-fashioned mother.
In 1958, the antagonism between them reached its peak. Krzysztof robbed his mother of a considerable sum, which she spent on a ticket to the United States and a new instrument. He settled in New York and secured a job at a recording studio as a session musician. However, he quickly lost it due to his unbridled love of improvisation. For many years, he held various, more or less legal jobs, including laundry, construction, and nightclub work; as a taxi driver, movie usher, and bartender; and he even tried pimping and selling drugs. It was a colorful period, full of music and drugs – Christopher likely held all-night jam sessions often laced with heroin, cocaine, and, later, LSD, playing with such luminaries as Ornette Coleman, Roscoe Mitchell, Leroy Jenkins, and Anthony Braxton.
In 1964, his review of The Mothers' debut album was published in the local weekly Queens Gazette, and from then on, he began earning money by writing small articles and reviews. However, he never published anything outside the New York press, and even then, of the lower ranks, not due to a lack of talent, but rather to his convictions – Chris had long maintained that art associated with money and fame could not be true; journalism, in his opinion, was not.
Besides short reviews, he also wrote for the drawer. One of these quiet fruits is the following short story – the story of a young musician told from the perspective of a mature artist. The saxophonist, going through all the stages of artistic development, described by the narrator based on their encounters in clubs, during jam sessions, and on the street, is an allegory for contemporary popular music, while Zamorski's reflections on his behavior express the author's attitude towards music and art. The motif of the melody the protagonist played during his debut runs throughout the composition – the story begins and ends with it. This concise prose structure evokes associations with the structure of a jazz piece, which introduces a theme and then, after developing it in various variations, brings it to a climax.
Linguistically, the author navigates between the world of poetic metaphors and flowery descriptions and an almost colloquial, one might even say journalistic, style, remaining almost constantly somewhere in between. In the climactic section of the work, Zamorsky employs a technique similar to Joyce's stream of consciousness. The punctuation-free description of drug hallucinations is an attempt to convey the multifaceted and simultaneous experiences that characterize a heroin dream.
Finally, a few words about the translation are in order. It's certainly not brilliant, but the goal set for it didn't require it. The English language abounds with various, untranslatable wordplays, unique constructions, and a vast number of idioms. The original text has been treated somewhat liberally, intended to be impressive, to convey the atmosphere of New York bohemia, presented through the dark transparency of the author's favorite drug. The meaning of many sentences has been slightly altered; the Polish version is not an exact semantic equivalent of the English.
The author of this preface encountered many difficulties, but one sentence in particular posed a challenge for the translator, not because it was more difficult than others, but because of its importance to the overall reading. The phrase that binds the composition together—his first notes were also his last—was preserved in this form for sound reasons, but in reality, the meaning was somewhat distorted. The actual meaning is that his first notes were the same as his last.
His first notes were also his last. The day I first met him is etched in my memory like a heavy, black curtain of heroin, separating me from the midday sun outside my window, yet possessing a small hole through which, like a heavenly glow, a narrow light struck my eyes—annoying and enchanting. The rounded chair backs, shaped like sea waves, the metal tables, and the brick walls exuded a basement stench; phantasmagorical spirals of tobacco, hashish, and cannabis smoke wandered through the room, drifting in the calm air, unsuspecting of the shock that awaited them.
The place I was in was a quite pleasant place for an older man like me at the time; only people under twenty-five (I was just under thirty at the time) came there; they drank, talked, had drug sessions, and, of course, listened to music. Every day, some noisy band played there, the rhythm pulsating like blood in their young veins, the harmony captivating, and the melody ripping at their hearts. Like the guests, those performing there were very young. They weren't impressive in their craft, they weren't virtuosos, but they played with feeling, youthful verve, and rebellion.
But, as I said, the day I first met him was one of those days you don't remember much about; fragments of memories from such days often merge, creating one great memory, one great, drugged-out day, with a thousand events, without distinction as to whether they occurred yesterday or five years earlier. But I also said that in that thick veil of oblivion, there was one small hole through which light shone. It was him.
His figure suggested no one harboring the soul of a demigod. Tall, thin, with a pale face and gray eyes. Someone had probably introduced us, as I had many acquaintances there, and he was there for the first time. I don't remember that, though... I suspect I dismissed it as if I'd stepped in a puddle or seen a stoned kid on the street. Because he was definitely stoned, and besides, he was just a regular kid.
"Hi, I'm so-and-so, I'm about to play with those guys who are getting dressed up. Want to hear it?
" "Sure. Hey Johnny, bring me another beer for me and my friend!"
That's what our conversation might have gone like, if it actually happened.
Only when he started playing did I feel the weight of my lack of interest. Everyone felt it. The entire room suddenly fell silent for a moment. Such things didn't really happen, even though people who frequented such places usually knew a little about music and had a certain sensitivity; someone could always be having a heated conversation, kissing someone, smoking something—in short, doing anything that wouldn't let them hear. But everyone heard this. He hadn't started it. His solo came after the trumpeter and alto saxophonist, so they'd been playing for quite a few minutes. In fact, his part was limited to a few bars. I never would have thought that a few bars could change someone's life so much, especially mine.
A soft glissando, a measured passage, a short flourish. Other than that, just a few notes. The few mysterious notes that formed the skeleton of this phrase were as beautiful as the sun on the horizon, like the Milky Way on a cloudless night, like the gaze of a green-eyed angel. This melody came from deep within, from the deepest layers of genius; it sounded like the definition of the human soul.
The young saxophonist felt that he had momentarily unsettled the hearts of those gathered, but this fact terrified him so completely that after those few beautiful bars, he hid his boyish soul behind a curtain of learned bop licks.
When I met him a few days later—this time sober—he didn't surprise me with his shyness, indecision, or even awkwardness. He was from somewhere in Louisiana (as evidenced by his mannered accent) and insisted he had come to New York to visit his uncle, but it was immediately obvious that he had run away from home. He was a loner, taciturn, and modest. He was always with his saxophone, playing around town because he couldn't afford a case. Where he got the money for the instrument itself, I didn't want to know. For the past few weeks, he'd been wandering the city, sleeping in the bars he happened to play in, or in cheap hotels. He spent almost all his earnings on crack.
I saw him from time to time. He'd pop into a bar for a moment and then go on stage with his friends. The musicians who'd been playing earlier would quickly leave, aware of the superiority of their spontaneous improvisations over their wistful evergreens. He'd also play on the streets of Brooklyn, sitting on the steps of a building, among old newspapers and a thousand cigarette butts. He'd come to brothels with a few bucks in hand to feel like a man. Once, he bought a gram and a half of hash from me. I offered him a cigarette, and we chatted for a while about the weather. He lived from day to day, disorganized, spontaneous, aimless and probably lost.
Of course, like everyone in the "environment," he had occasional contacts with the authorities and frequent dealings with certain inappropriate individuals. Being arrested for robbery (i.e., being a passive spectator to a major brawl) or drunkenness (i.e., getting high) didn't entail more serious consequences than spending a few hours in the dumps. You might just get the occasional slap in the face from a frustrated officer. That's all.
It was worse with inappropriate individuals, with whom you shouldn't even associate. Assaults are common here. Escapes, pursuits, extortions, and threats occur, especially to the most irresponsible—people to whom even a bum wouldn't entrust his financial affairs. I only know of one instance of our hero being beaten, and I witnessed it! The guests were simply too impatient; it took about two hours for his band to finish their paid performance. However, amphetamines and whiskey don't exactly promote patience. Dragging him outside during a break, they knocked out one of his teeth (later, for some unknown reason, he replaced it with a silver one) and his good looks for a few days. Nothing extraordinary, really. Nothing that would have changed anyone's life.
It lasted about two, maybe three, months after I met him. If the world is small, what can you say about New York? It wasn't unusual in this city of almost eight million people for two people to meet by chance once a week—especially if their tastes in bars were similar. It might seem improbable, but there weren't that many bars playing free jazz at the time.
***
Unfortunately, due to my contacts with some inappropriate people, I had to leave New York for a few months.
The train. Train travel has its own unique characteristics. On the train, you can meet anyone: from a drunken farmer from Oklahoma to a stoned stockbroker from Washington. Like any mode of transport, it's socially diverse (except, of course, for the "noblest" class), but traveling by train has the advantage over buses or planes in that you can easily move around the train at your own pace, at any point during the journey—you can explore the train itself!
My journey was quite long—about twelve hours. I didn't know at the time if I'd make it safely, or if an "unfortunate" or, worse yet, "tragic" accident would await me in the near future, so I traveled on the go, among the sleepy and sluggish workers who filled the train, only to finally rest in an empty compartment. I sat dazed for nine hours, not making the slightest movement, not blinking, not thinking about anything.
A moving train is music. You only need to concentrate to hear the entire symphony of squeaks, creaks, knocks, and crackles. The monotonous, steady rhythm induces a trance, lulls you into sleep, and allows you to escape reality. The high registers drill into your brain, almost inaudible; screeching trills somewhere deep within the engine jump irregularly between quarter-tones, and outside the window, a tape recorder—fields, meadows, prairies, rivers, forests, fields, meadows, and the intrusive, arrhythmic refrain of some provincial station.
Perhaps, looking back, it would be an exaggeration to say I felt like Odysseus setting off on a long and dangerous journey. He had set off in glory and for glory, while I had slipped away, escaping fate. However, I was traveling to unknown lands, to some desolate Troy, to fight there a battle with loneliness and separation from culture. I was as if between Scylla and Charybdis. Fleeing, I knew I might never return home; if I had stayed, I certainly wouldn't have written those words or done anything. True, I didn't have my Penelope, but a strange feeling, as if some Telemachus of mine remained somewhere, haunted me. Did he need me, like a father to his son?
***
To this day, the evening when that young man took the stage for the first time remains a great mystery to me. It seemed nothing major had happened—he simply played a nice phrase; it worked. He got high, and it was crack cocaine he played, not him. And yet. Despite the anesthetic inhalation, the boy was utterly nervous. He went out—he played. Those first notes were his own, but he was terribly ashamed of himself, so when he felt he was doing well, he decided to show off his youthful, imagined erudition, which he actually possessed—in wishful thinking—and couldn't understand why no one was listening anymore...
But that wonderful beginning!
Some time after his debut, he told me he didn't even know the key of that first piece. He couldn't remember. Someone told him or showed him some sheet music, but he didn't know anything about music. Someone hummed the melody to him. More or less. So he didn't know what to play; he didn't think about it because he couldn't. He sensed what he had to do. He played with sensitivity, but it seemed to him that he was overconfident, that he started on too high a note. He probably just thought it was pretentious.
What he played then wasn't complicated; a few notes, a slow, subdued theme. The melody is etched in my brain, in my soul; I can still hear it, but I've never been able to play it again. Whether it was trumpet, piano, saxophone, clarinet, or guitar, I couldn't rise to the occasion to recall those notes from the depths of my memory, even though they were still there. At first, I regretted being so drunk that day, but now I doubt my condition had any bearing on it. There's more to it than that. It was this melody, its quality surpassing my cognitive abilities. Usually, hearing something once is enough to recall it even days later. I have, to be immodest, a very good auditory and musical memory. Isn't that strange?
My return (also by train) to New York was shrouded in mystery. Although the danger had diminished, I still had to be cautious. I didn't leave the house more often than necessary—to the store for groceries and to a dealer I knew (I only bought pot, though; I couldn't afford anything else at the time). For weeks, I didn't go to any clubs, didn't call friends or acquaintances. During one of my frequent late-night trips to the 24-hour store for cigarettes, I met him.
He was drunk as hell, with a bottle of cheap bourbon still peeking out from his shirt, and with him were two scantily clad black women. He didn't recognize me, and besides, nothing else occupied his attention except gazing at the cleavage of one and kissing the other. These weren't whores, but ordinary "liberated women." He didn't have his saxophone with him.
This encounter may seem trivial and unworthy of mention. But quite significant changes had taken place in the young artist. He was no longer shy; he was even confident—at least enough to pick up two horny girls. Instead of Brown Sugar, he could have sung "Whiskey in the Jar" (of course, those songs didn't exist at the time), which was a testament to his spiritual decline—high on booze, he wallowed in his own vomit instead of floating in the heavenly haze of heroin.
I was certain—he'd gone downhill. A few weeks later, when many things had become clearer, I started going to clubs and concerts again. I was certain I'd see him again sooner or later, but I didn't crave it as much as I had after our first meeting. I didn't look for him; I almost forgot about him when he re-entered my mind unexpectedly and with such grandeur.
A few months of New York life had transformed this boy, frightened and taciturn, into a strong young man, a typical metropolitan. He had acquired traits that New Yorkers don't see in themselves, but which, to an outsider, are obvious. Rough, proud, a bit arrogant, even aggressive. He appeared to me as such at first glance, when he was standing right next to me and talking with the double bass player about the arrangement of a number they were about to play.
He was a professional, he knew his craft inside and out, as they say. He learned the notes, learned a few terms he probably hadn't known before. And from the way he played, it was clear that thorough craftsmanship combined with a fresh approach was his way of approaching music. He created a sensation. Unlike the last time I heard him, he didn't reach the heights of his talents, but neither did he fall to the hard ground of identitylessness. He was himself, but at the same time, he was more of someone else, drawing too much from the spirit that was currently circulating in the New York world, giving too little of himself.
It was easy. Yes, that's a good way to put it—he took the easy way out. It was a pleasure to listen to him, but you could tell his true value lay deeper, and he was afraid, ashamed, to unearth and express it. He learned quickly, instantly picking up tricks that others had taken weeks to hone. I suspected he didn't practice much; he wasn't the type. It's like in school—the brightest students usually get straight A's. He didn't care about virtuosity, he wasn't a perfectionist. He made mistakes, he didn't play perfectly, but that added flavor to his music. He was like a young god, beautiful and naive, his immaturity becoming the main characteristic of his talent. He was fresh and unashamed, imposing his youth. He was a bratty good guy, likeable in a bratty way, a brat among brats, and yet it was a pleasure to listen to.
From then on, he became increasingly famous; he even went to Chicago, gave a few concerts, bringing home a few doses of the local stuff as a trophy. Many people in his community began to recognize his name, and he was invited to perform at increasingly exclusive venues. He bought a new instrument, started dressing tastefully (if you can even call it that at his age), had a different woman every night, took real heroin instead of crack, and stopped drinking booze. In short, he succeeded. He got lucky. He got a taste of the social life—the refined, false, cultured, primitive life of the "elite." Free jazz, which had been his passion until then, had ceased to interest him; he "returned" (metaphorically, since he had never played it) to classical jazz, or rather, to the classical band model—he wanted to be a leader. And he lost himself, and I lost myself with him, because he was perfect, phenomenal, outstanding! And besides, I found some perverse pleasure in watching someone fall.
He was so close to being mentioned in every book on the history of jazz today, his name being mentioned in the same breath as Coleman, Braxton, or even Davis! It was a matter of days. The events described above only seem long-term, but in reality, it was a week with perhaps a slight twist. His fame was a foregone conclusion, absolutely certain, but it required at least that minimal condition: his presence. And he disappeared. It vanished, sank into the earth, evaporated, dissolved, disappeared like a stone into water, and emerged in a truly English manner.
He was reportedly seen early in the morning (around eleven o'clock) boarding a flight from New York to New Orleans with a handsome young woman. Had he fallen in love? Or perhaps he had fathered a child with her? Perhaps it was his sister, perhaps a cousin, a friend, his wife? The first option seemed most likely. Suddenly, he grew tired of the high life and flew somewhere far away, probably to the countryside (because I don't think he was fleeing from one metropolis to another). Although, in reality, literally anything could have happened, including kidnapping, murder, fleeing the police or creditors.
Since no one took any formal steps to publicize his talent, only a sincere, yet fleeting, regret remained, drowned that same evening in a glass of expensive champagne. There were so many other talented youngsters to milk.
I must admit, my admiration for him was somewhat misplaced. It was based solely on that single, saving melody, which had destroyed my heart then, only to rebuild it a moment later. It could have been a cosmic accident; perhaps my sick, chemically distorted imagination was playing tricks on me. It's possible that the melody didn't exist at all, or perhaps it didn't even exist. Finally, it's possible that I suffer from schizophrenia, that some inner sense of imperfection had created in my mind the figure of an artist-god, an ideal talent whose greatness lay solely in that one fleeting illumination. It's just as likely as the fact that only I exist and everything around me is a dream, the product of a lonely spirit... (As a matter of fact, one of his first compositions was called "Solipsism").
For a few days, I functioned as if nothing had happened, but suddenly I realized that something didn't feel right. At first, I thought, like everyone else, that many talented people had seen and heard each other, that one guy with a good ear wasn't enough, that there were younger and better people than him. I thought I saw right through him, that he was a "typical" genius and, in fact, not particularly innovative. These were times when striving for innovation was a requirement, a kind of axiom, accepted by all young creators without a single "if." But he was different.
I suddenly realized that his originality lay on a different plane, qualitatively different, deeper, and more difficult to grasp. I realized that his art—what he created—was fresher than any avant-garde; than all the cheap artistic extremism, than John Cage, Max Ernst, Yoko Ono, and the entire Fluxus (damn Wiesbaden) combined. He was fresh because he didn't try to be fresh. He never cared about making a name for himself, his art was never subordinated to anything but himself. He didn't want fame or money; he didn't crave the glitz of high society; he didn't crave recognition—he simply played. He played because that was the only thing he loved in life, because he was born for it. And he was damn good.
Once I recovered, after realizing this fundamental truth for the future of contemporary music, I decided to seek him out. I'll find him, take him to the studio, and let him produce a perfect work—a Kind of Blue from the 1960s, a Fugue and Toccata from the 20th century, a Hamlet of music... and suddenly I realized my own stupidity.
What was I trying to do?! What a monster I would become if I brought these fantasies into reality?! I wanted to lock him in a cage. In a cage—woven from clever pleas, arguments, innocent blackmail, and promises—I wanted to lock him up and present him to the world as a perfect exhibit, a supposed emanation of the absolute! Idiot! This fiery phoenix would burn alive, ignited by the desperate call of its divine spark. And having burned, it would be reborn as a hideous horror of decadence.
What else was left for me to do but continue living as one does after the death of a loved one? I was absolutely certain then that I would never hear his music (Music) again. I imagined him buying a small farm somewhere in the middle of the Mississippi, with a cottage right by the river, and playing his beloved that wonderful melody that it seemed I would never hear again. So I haunted jazz clubs, played occasionally in some attic, and continued using heroin (though, due to my age, in smaller quantities).
Beatlemania swept America, then came the Stones, and Hendrix, on whom Miles Davis famously declared "war." Life went on, as usual, one might say. LSD and amphetamines became commonplace. Cocaine temporarily replaced heroin. The Summer of Love began and ended. Woodstock became a cult event, if not legendary. In the East, the Russians occupied my homeland and threatened nuclear apocalypse. The Vietnam War was taking its toll on this country's finest sons.
Nothing new. The old way...
Attic music became fashionable at the time. These were jam sessions of a sort, with a narcotic atmosphere and the freedom of improvisation. In the stuffy attics, arguments, kisses, fights, quarrels, dialogues, fights, monologues, wild orgies, sensual love, rapes, tears of sadness, tears of joy took place—all performed solely with instruments. I called it an ugly term—a fad—while it was a very pleasant practice. The intimacy and sense of intellectual and artistic community made those nights unforgettable. Something magical permeated these deliberately unrenovated attics—a feeling of loss of virginity—through music, we entered a wilderness never before visited. The scent of the New and Unique wafted through this dusty air.
So I'd often spend entire days in these places—playing until dawn, sleeping until noon, playing until dawn, sleeping... These were carefree times, like a return to youth—no worries, music was our drug. I'd sometimes go there sober, but as soon as the sound machine kicked in, we'd fly away with the pulse, wandering higher than the stars, deeper than the ocean...
One day, as I was floating slightly above the ground, admiring the artistry and maturity of some incredible instrumentalists, he appeared. He was emaciated, his eyes were dark circles, and he generally looked as if he hadn't slept in years. Seeing me, he headed to where I was sitting and asked for help. I understood. He had no money, he said he'd pay me back. I agreed, though I didn't believe him anyway.
We headed for the exit and, after walking a few blocks, arrived at a familiar dive. The service was professional—clean needles, the best product, even a room available for rent for a few hours. We sat on the floor, leaning against the bed, blissfully asleep. A lightbulb hanging from the ceiling illuminated the chipped walls with a dim, orange light, humming dully. We sank between these walls, a thousand shades of mahogany. In their sepia tones, the world took on a mysterious and pleasant atmosphere. The tide receded. The vast sea took us away, roaring and fragrant. Wave after wave, we emerged into the wide waters, floating with the current, helpless to do anything, speechless. The blue sky was broken only by a few stray strata.
The water disappeared, but the waves remained.
Suddenly, music came to us. Whether it was him humming or someone in my mind, I didn't know. Time stopped, we were suspended between reality and abstraction in an undefined form, we'll drift there, we're drifting, we've drifted, time doesn't exist, music plays beyond time, it has nothing to do with space, neither. A car outside the window. Stuffy. A lightbulb buzzes. A car outside the window. We've moved beyond form. We don't know if it's a saxophone, a violin, or a piano playing. We hear real, naked music, not notes, not sounds, not timbres. We hear the music and nothing else, we see the music, we feel it, we can touch it. It becomes real, it stands before us, it speaks to us, you can see its lips moving, but I can't understand the words. Stuffy. Or maybe I didn't hear it. It hears. She will speak to him, not to me—this isn't the first time they're talking. She taught him, he loves her—this isn't the first time they're talking. She teaches him, he loves her. She's in the form of a beautiful woman, a green-eyed angel. I see, but I can't hear her words. Is she singing or talking, is she singing or screaming? Or maybe she's crying? Or rather, not. I can't hear—only the dull buzzing of a lightbulb hanging above the ceiling, as intrusive as a fly.
A blaze of colors in a minor key descended upon me. I recognized all the notes, all the chords; I could write them down from memory, if only red, green, or brown could be written down. I knew these sounds inside out—the legato of black, the staccato of white. A second of blue, a tritone of purple. The colors enveloped me and began to fall steadily, third by third, until I opened my eyes, a wave washed me ashore, and I awoke. He was no longer in the room; I went home. I didn't see him again, except for one night.
The day I last met him looms large in my memory like the sun above the horizon, unknown whether it was sunrise or sunset—only rose-crimson sparks spilling across the sky. Just that one glorious moment, then the pale morning washes over me in a cold stream, while the stars raise their proud constellations to the firmament, and darkness envelops him. The melody I remembered so well struck my ears like seven trumpets; I heard it again, and the deity died, his power drowning before my eyes in the misty sludge of heroin. His first notes were also his last.
THE END
