Saxophone Music Quotes

I never liked jazz music because jazz music doesn't resolve. But I was outside the Bagdad Theater in Portland one night when I saw a man playing the saxophone. I stood there for fifteen minutes, and he never opened his eyes. After that I liked jazz music. Sometimes you have to watch somebody love something before you can love it yourself. It is as if they are showing you the way. I used to not like God because God didn't resolve. But that was before any of this happened.

At the edge of madness you howl diamonds and pearls.

I never liked jazz music because jazz music doesn't resolve. But I was outside the Bagdad Theater in Portland one night when I saw a man playing the saxophone. I stood there for fifteen minutes, and he never opened his eyes.

Music is fluid, and sometimes I fill up my saxophone to the point where it overflows. Of course, sometimes my ducks splash and slosh it all over my shoes, but the other passengers in the elevator never seem to mind.

I'd fight a gang of wolves if they attacked my ducks. Like Mozart, you can call me Wolfgang.

Over time, ink fades like a duck quack in the wind. I have a baseball signed by Babe Ruth, but his autograph has gone invisible. That’s why it’s now ON SALE for ONLY $19.95.

Did you even know the saxophone could make duck farm noises? You know I'm a genius jazz performer because it sounds like I haven't played an instrument ever before.

What are words worth if you write like Wordsworth? Not as much as a man named Wordsandpicturesworth. That's so long, so I'd just call him Memesworth, and I'd use him to help me sell ducks.

Some people shape wind with their mouths, and it sounds like words, but there’s no mind behind them. Even an echo can speak without thinking, and if a canyon repeats the word quack, that doesn’t mean it can communicate like a duck.

You don't need a vacation. You just need to dig a pond on your land and buy some ducks, and then you can enjoy moments of escapism without ever leaving your property.

Growing up, I was always filled with DoNotDisturbery, and I dance like a Slippery When Wet sign with legs. The jerky motion might remind you of a Pekin duck in flight.

I play the saxophone like a duck quacks. Tickets are ONLY $19.95. Lessons sold separately. No assembly required.

It should be illegal to condense xylophone music and sell it in a can as imitation duck broth, but it isn’t, and so I do. One for $20, or 19 for ONLY $19.95!

It's too bad GIFs are silent, because I recorded some original saxophone music to accompany my newest masterpiece. It sounds like ducks quacking on the moon, and if you've got an empty elevator that needs space to be filled, it's now FOR SALE.

The saxophone is the cocaine of the woodwind family, the sax teacher continues. Saxophonists are admired because they are dangerous, because they have explored a darker, more sinister side of themselves.

Rob Thomas has two first names for a first and last name, and his name spells out a short sentence: Rob Thomas. Rob Thomas of what, his doubt? That Biblical ambiguity is what inspired me to name three of my ducks after him: Rob, Thomas, and Rob Thomas.

When slightly open, a door is ajar, but when slightly open, is a jar adoor? That reminds me: Ducks have no hands, so you'll probably need to unscrew the jelly lid before you feed them their favorite grape format.

When I make duck soup, I add an extra pinch of Simply Red’s hit song “Holding Back The Years.” It makes a better emulsifier than peeled carrots.

Geese are terrorists. But ducks, ducks are the heroes of the bird world.

There's not much money to be made in duck farming. That's OK, because The Whisper Factory is now hiring! Report your grandma for suspicious behavior and get PAID!

Liquid xylophone music with a hint of saxophone is too exotic to drink. But it's perfect for swimming ducks, and that sound really comes across in the taste later.

Kevin Bacon has a name made for breakfast, and no one knows this better than Johnny Scrambledduckeggs. Ask me how to get FREE coffee in the morning after 3:33 PM.

The dandelion gives all of its future to ride on the wind for one beautiful moment. I'll bet my flightless Pekin ducks would trade their life away to become one with the breeze.

People pay top dollar to eat my duck eggs. I wish they also paid bottom dollar, plus all the ones in the middle, because honestly, what am I gonna do with a dollar?

I partly base my financial decisions on the annual migratory patterns of Bigfoot, because maps are the new charts, as taught by the esteemed Ponce de Leon School of Beauty, Youth, Wealth, and Duck Farming, but what do you say to a man who wants to be his own cartographer?

The reason I write music with one note occurring every 24 hours is that slow dancing is a lost art, and I'm trying to bring it back at an almost inaudible pace. Listen like a duck swims or you'll miss the best part of the song.

Both a rose and a cactus have thorns, and while the rose may say, "I love you," the cactus says, "Fuck off." I think that's important to remember, and it's the ideal way to farm ducks.

A stranger asked where I'm from, and I said I was from Jacksonville. His brow furrowed and he said he didn’t remember me. I thought to myself, “Oh, no! Have I just been caught editing myself out of his memory?" So, I grabbed the Duffel bag full of ducks and ran out of the room.

There are quiet places also in the mind,” he said, meditatively. “But we build bandstand and factories on them. Deliberately—to put a stop to the quietness. We don’t like the quietness. All the thoughts, all the preoccupation in my head—round and round continually.” He made a circular motion with his hands. “And the jazz bands, the music hall songs, the boys shouting the news. What’s it all for? To put an end to the quiet, to break it up and disperse it, to pretend at any cost it isn’t there. Ah, but it is, it is there, in spite of everything, at the back of everything. Lying awake at night, sometimes—not restlessly, but serenely, waiting for sleep—the quiet re-establishes itself, piece by piece; all the broken bits, all the fragments of it we’ve been so busily dispersing all day long. It re-establishes itself, an inward quiet, like this outward quiet of grass and trees. It fills one, it grows –a crystal quiet, a growing expanding crystal. It grows, it becomes more perfect; it is beautiful and terrifying, yes, terrifying, as well as beautiful. For one’s alone in the crystal and there’s no support from outside, there’s nothing external and important, nothing external and trivial to pull oneself up by or to stand up, superiorly, contemptuously, so that one can look down. There’s nothing to laugh at or feel enthusiastic about. But the quiet grows and grows. Beautifully and unbearably. And at last you are conscious of something approaching; it is almost a faint sound of footsteps. Something inexpressibly lovely and wonderful advances through the crystal, nearer, nearer. And oh, inexpressibly terrifying. For if it were to touch you, if it were to seize and engulf you, you’d die; all the regular habitual, daily part of you would die. There would be and end of bandstands and whizzing factories, and one would have to begin living arduously in the quiet, arduously n some strange unheard-of manner. Nearer, nearer come the steps; but one can’t face the advancing thing. One daren’t. It’s too terrifying; it’s too painful to die. Quickly, before it is too late, start the factory wheels, bang the drum, blow up the saxophone. Think of the women you’d like to sleep with, the schemes for making money, the gossip about your friends, the last outrage of the politicians. Anything for a diversion. Break the silence, smash the crystal to pieces. There, it lies in bits; it is easily broken, hard to build up and easy to break. And the steps? Ah, those have taken themselves off, double quick. Double quick, they were gone at the flawing of the crystal. And by this time the lovely and terrifying thing is three infinities away, at least. And you lie tranquilly on your bed, thinking of what you’d do if you had ten thousand pounds and of all the fornications you’ll never commit.

I make music for whales, dolphins, ducks, and deaf people. Using only sign language and silence, my songs are meant to swim in your ears using the same power that allows the moon to create the tides.

I like the circus, because they make a business out of being a clown show. But I hate The Chamber of Commerce, because they make a clown show out of business. In between those two extremes is my duck farm.

I'm wearing my Midnight Black Dancing Shoes. They are shaped like vintage locomotives, and I move like the memory of Branson in 1991—which fluctuates by minutes every day, just like the scene at my duck farm.

Music is so archaic. Why do we still listen to songs through our ears? Why can't music come in liquid format, and be mixed in with my morning coffee that I love to drink when I first wake up at 3:33 PM? Also consider the ducks. Wouldn't they love to swim in music?

I make music one note at a time, just like Mozart did. Tomorrow night you’ll get to hear the second note in my masterpiece symphony. If you could take the clicking noises that a whale makes, merge them with ducks quacking, and convert them to digital wavelengths, that's the vibe.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, I’m a moron. Fool me three or more times consecutively, and I’m a VOTER. Not even ducks are that dumb.

When jerks ask me, “Hey asshole, what’s your deal?” I say, “Buy One Duck, Get One FREE.” But then I inform them that I’m out of stock, and they can only get Buy One, Get None.

Why is it called a flight of stairs? It should be called The Pekin Duck of stairs, because it's the kind of flying that's composed entirely of walking.

When not duck farming, I'm busy being mysterious. I'm like The Hardy Boys. Both of them. That's why I exclusively shop Buy One, Get One FREE.

You can't do enough tomorrow to make up for not doing anything today. That's why it's best to have started yesterday.

Sometimes my kitchen sink doubles as a duck pond. Problem is, I can't exactly move my diving board, so I have to relocate Greg Louganis Hour to another slot, like one on the toaster.

Water-flavored lollipops that flow upwards on a stick, that’s what cats want. I would make that, but I’m too busy making duck soup that’s so advanced I got the formula from the year 2244.

When something is thrown at someone, why do people shout, "Duck!"? I'll tell you why. It's because SwimmingFlying Birds are the world's greatest dodgeball players, and their name is synonymous with the quick athletic reflex needed to avoid getting hit.

Time flies, it's true. But what kind of wings does it have, butterfly wings, bat wings, or eagle wings? None. It has the wings of a duck, which is why I'm surprised nobody in history has noticed that time also swims.

No matter how fat your kid is, I’m going to call him Sport. “Hiya, Sport!" Then I'm going to tell him that Gatorade is a subpar energy drink, and if he really wants to chug something powerful, he should gulp down raw duck eggs.

Some of the best gifts are ones the recipient doesn’t even know you’ve given, so they don’t ever feel beholden, and they never know how valuable it was or how much it helped them, which means they never feel obligated to repay you. I do that for my ducks all the time.

You know how Asian kids practice their musical instruments with continuous gusto? Well, American kids don't practice at all. I was one of those American kids, and that's how I came to be a performer in an elevator. Enjoy as I coax duck farm sounds out of my saxophone.

In the movie White Men Can’t Jump, the final boss duo that the two street hustlers must defeat are called King and Duck. I felt that, because I’m The Duck King, and I didn’t have to win a basketball game for the title—I was elected via unanimous and cacophonous quack.

Music leaks out of the Walkman, and a saxophone from long ago circles in the air, so sad it could barely leave the ground.

If you like how jazz music sounds, you'll love how it tastes. My duck soup now comes in trumpet-solo flavor. You don't have to curl weights, because this is already pure Armstrong.

I'll be your Mozart, if you'll be my gang of wolves. If you can do that, I'll also be your Wolfgang—but you’ve got to promise to not attack my ducks.

When push comes to shove, I’m going to figure out some doors need to be pulled to be opened. I like to walk into places like a duck that's just finished running a marathon.

Time is fluid, like the wide sky that fades into bright orange in a sunset in The Ozarks. Here on my duck farm, every moment is meant to be sipped and savored like a slow mimosa.

I’m a duck farmer, and that’s not something you go to school to be. If you did, there certainly wouldn’t be any kickball classes.

As a singer, she's in the music industry. As a duck farmer, I’m in the noise business. The product I pulse through the air invisibly is better for your ears.

Your golf course is my duck farm. I am The John Daly of raising avians.

The PGA has transitioned from three letters into five: LGBTQ. For me, real progress in golf would mean turning all the courses into duck farms.

Yesterday I went fishing for kittens, and I caught two ducks. They were shaped like Helen Keller's WhistleLisps, so that's probably why they got tangled up in my net.

I didn't ask to be The Duck King. I was elected by unanimous Quack.

I'd like to repair your elevator using only a kayak and a smile. If it's broken, my advice would be to remove the ducks and restart the waterfall.

Why miss a SALE at twenty dollars, when people will buy at $19.95? I've found that the opportunity to save that nickel really makes people say YES to buying a NEW duck.

When you have a pet waterfall, and you want to take it for a walk, the trickiest part is trying to figure out what to use for a leash. Next time, try a duck.

Sometimes my duck soup tastes like melted saxophone jazz, only more metallic. That's why I spice it up with trombone solo in liquid format.

Duck farming has taught me that my day-to-day thinking changes in a gradient that's subtle and unnoticeable when observed in 24-hour blocks, but becomes obvious when seen in longer time frames. In the past two years I've changed from pink to blue, but it was all purple to me.

Why is a talkative person called a Chatty Cathy? That phrase possesses brevity, when someone verbose should instead be called a Chattering Catherine. Cathy talks so much and manages to say nothing. She could learn from ducks, who speak only one word, quack, but say everything.

Old houses make funny noises. One time I stayed in a decaying place that made sounds like John Waite's 1984 radio hit "Missing You." Personally, I liked it, but the 13 ducks I was sharing a bathtub with didn't agree, so they made me take them to the luxury hotel known as Motel 6.

The skills needed to stay employable are changing daily, which is why I'm now offering a class called: "How To Sew Pants While Riding A Unicycle And Playing The Saxophone Like A Quacking Duck." What are the jobs of The Future? Nobody knows, but my class will train you to Get Hired!

When fishing for birds, remember: The sky is a floating body of water. Use the proper bait, like Victorian poetry. Some ducks fly like they swim, and they love Browning everything behind them.

She realized now that she had been expecting old-fashioned instruments – pipes, fifes, fiddles and tinny drums. Instead there came the cocksure, brassy warble of a saxophone, the blare of a cornet and the squeak and trill of a clarinet being made to work for its living. Not-Triss had heard jazz with neatly wiped shoes and jazz with gritty soles and a grin. And this too was jazz, but barefoot on the grass and blank-eyed with bliss, its musical strands irregular as wind gusts and unending as ivy vines.

I like how grocery stores play music while I'm shopping. Vintage pop really makes me want to pay full price and avoid looking for discounts. I need to implement that financial psychology here on my duck farm.

I haven’t sold Spinning Death Kicks Disguised As Reading A Book Quietly since my third grade teacher confiscated all my camouflage material. She also snatched away my Duck Quacks In A Can (with 50% more flavor).

I'm making money moves. Those moves are delicate and subtle, because I don't want to wake up the duck cuddling on my lap, or spill the cup of coffee I'm holding while I ride my unicycle in this circus called Life.

One time one guy said he had a stroke reading my absurd writing, so I said, “Thank you for your service.” Then I continued washing my dishes in my lawnmower, because my ducks were splashing around in the kitchen sink.

My point is, I’m a fan of music, but jazz isn’t music. Jazz is some cockwomble in a beret, wanking himself off with a saxophone.”“Sax-a-phobic, are we?”“Don’t come that with me, Clarence from the E Street Band is a legend, but he’s not doing a twenty-minute atonal arse-clenching solo that sounds like someone sodomising a goose.

I chug duck soup like a giraffe that has a tornado for a neck. I’m sure you can relate. I've captured the whole experience in my newest gender-gradient fragrance that has so many notes I call it Liquid Saxophone Romance.

I am a confused Musician who got sidetracked into this goddamn Word business for so long that I never got back to music - except maybe when I find myself oddly alone in a quiet room with only a typewriter to strum on and a yen to write a song. Who knows why? Maybe I just feel like singing - so I type. These quick electric keys are my Instrument, my harp, my RCA glass-tube microphone, and my fine soprano saxophone all at once. That is my music, for good or ill, and on some nights it will make me feel like a god. Veni, Vidi, Vici... That is when the fun starts...

She said she had two brothers, one in heaven and one in college. I said, "Aww, sorry to hear about the one. Such a tragedy to lose a brother to debt servitude. Tell him to drop out and become a duck farmer before he's too indoctrinated.

Tennis Elbow is easily curable, and here's how: Switch to playing ping-pong. Sure, the pain is still there, but now it's Ping-Pong Elbow, and that's so silly it might make you rethink your hobbies, which might turn you into a duck farmer.

Every Friday The Thirteenth I celebrate Knights Templar Day. Here at my Duck Farm Gift Shop, I've got THE authentic map that details the location of their hidden treasure, and I'll sell it to you for ONLY $19.95. (Limit one per customer.)

Signs say things by yelling silently, while dogs communicate quietly through urine. Somewhere in the middle are ducks, and I'm writing a translation dictionary that has one word—Quack. That one word has a hundred thousand meanings or more.

If a man makes pillows, even if made from duck down, how does he sleep at night? Does a pillow maker have no soul? How can pillow makers sleep knowing they make an Object Of Violence that is involved in more fights than any other component of bedding?

If you asked what my favorite music is, I'd say the kind you'd hear while shopping for groceries on a Tuesday afternoon. That's just the kind of romantic I am. But when working around my ducks, I'm all business, like smooth jazz in a crowded elevator.

I was walking through the forest when I thought I heard a tree fart. But no, it was just one of my ducks. It had set up a vending booth and was selling whoopee cushions to politicians who had run out of speech ideas that are sure to make VOTERS cheer.

The idea of samples is simple: What you lose by giving away product, you gain in future sales. That’s why I give away FREE duck eggs. You might walk out of your house tomorrow morning to discover I’ve tossed a few at your car during the middle of the night.

I just talked to an old duck farmer who told me he remembers me from when I was three months old. I replied, “Oh, I recall that. That was June of ’82. I told you the stock market would crash in five years, around October, and you scoffed and called me a pessimist.

Laws are written, and laws are re-written. I can't believe I still got a speeding ticket after explaining to the duck-faced cop that where I'm from, the year 2244, the Speed Limit is 88 miles per hour, which is exactly how fast I was going when I passed by his radar gun.

Every historical subject is deeper than The Mariana Trench. Wikipedia is for people who like to splash around in mud puddles and think of themselves as oceanographers. Even my ducks delve down further than those people, because they actually explore the world around them.

I think when you VOTE, you should be handed synthetic duck meat on a stick for participating in The FREEDOM Ritual. Sure, the charred meat will be made up of ground-up bugs, but the flavoring, that is 100% organic chemicals of unknown origin—and that’s as real as America.

Of all the animals that fly, some are like floating flowers (butterflies), some are songbirds that are full of gulp (swallows), and some are swimming birds that also run marathons (ducks). When I compose music to be performed live in an elevator, those are my inspirations.

The Popeyes Spicy Chicken Sandwich was so popular that customers stabbed each other to get it, and then seeing that passion, McDonald's created its own Spicy Chicken Sandwich. Here on my duck farm, I fully support McDonald's trying to get their customers to stab each other.

People are all the same. We all think we are unique. That's what I like about ducks. They don't think about themselves. They think about things like: How can we save humans from killing themselves? Of course, they have the solution, but they just refuse to share it with us.

If you want to buy a duck or a synthetic duck substitute, ask me about my Tuesday Specials that happen every Wednesday. If you're a fan of invisibility, inaudibility, and undetectability, then you'll LOVE this deal, because you can't see it, hear it, or in any way sense it.

How many minutes of my life have I wasted staring at the microwave waiting for my plate to get hot while my food stays refrigerated? To save time, and add potentially years to my life, I've decided that I do like cold pizza. I learned that from my ducks, as they LOVE cold pizza.

To your party I'll bring my World-Famous Leftover Duck Meatloaf. It's from 1999, and the only reason I have it in my possession is because my old high-school math teacher called me up to come remove it from my old locker, because it was making his class smell like Savage Garden.

I find the writings of actors to be interesting. Actors are people who are famous for speaking words that others have crafted for them, and very often they themselves are incredibly inarticulate. If they were ducks, they couldn’t even say “quack” without someone writing it for them.

There was music from my neighbor's house through the summer nights. In his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars. At high tide in the afternoon I watched his guests diving from the tower of his raft, or taking the sun on the hot sand of his beach while his two motor-boats slit the waters of the Sound, drawing aquaplanes over cataracts of foam. On week-ends his Rolls-Royce became an omnibus, bearing parties to and from the city between nine in the morning and long past midnight, while his station wagon scampered like a brisk yellow bug to meet all trains. And on Mondays eight servants, including an extra gardener, toiled all day with mops and scrubbing-brushes and hammers and garden-shears, repairing the ravages of the night before. Every Friday five crates of oranges and lemons arrived from a fruiterer in New York--every Monday these same oranges and lemons left his back door in a pyramid of pulpless halves. There was a machine in the kitchen which could extract the juice of two hundred oranges in half an hour if a little button was pressed two hundred times by a butler's thumb. At least once a fortnight a corps of caterers came down with several hundred feet of canvas and enough colored lights to make a Christmas tree of Gatsby's enormous garden. On buffet tables, garnished with glistening hors-d'oeuvre, spiced baked hams crowded against salads of harlequin designs and pastry pigs and turkeys bewitched to a dark gold. In the main hall a bar with a real brass rail was set up, and stocked with gins and liquors and with cordials so long forgotten that most of his female guests were too young to know one from another. By seven o'clock the orchestra has arrived, no thin five-piece affair, but a whole pitful of oboes and trombones and saxophones and viols and cornets and piccolos, and low and high drums. The last swimmers have come in from the beach now and are dressing up-stairs; the cars from New York are parked five deep in the drive, and already the halls and salons and verandas are gaudy with primary colors, and hair shorn in strange new ways, and shawls beyond the dreams of Castile. The bar is in full swing, and floating rounds of cocktails permeate the garden outside, until the air is alive with chatter and laughter, and casual innuendo and introductions forgotten on the spot, and enthusiastic meetings between women who never knew each other's names. The lights grow brighter as the earth lurches away from the sun, and now the orchestra is playing yellow cocktail music, and the opera of voices pitches a key higher. Laughter is easier minute by minute, spilled with prodigality, tipped out at a cheerful word. The groups change more swiftly, swell with new arrivals, dissolve and form in the same breath; already there are wanderers, confident girls who weave here and there among the stouter and more stable, become for a sharp, joyous moment the centre of a group, and then, excited with triumph, glide on through the sea-change of faces and voices and color under the constantly changing light. Suddenly one of the gypsies, in trembling opal, seizes a cocktail out of the air, dumps it down for courage and, moving her hands like Frisco, dances out alone on the canvas platform. A momentary hush; the orchestra leader varies his rhythm obligingly for her, and there is a burst of chatter as the erroneous news goes around that she is Gilda Gray's understudy from the FOLLIES. The party has begun.

I live in a different time zone than you, which means I am a Man of The Future, and I can tell you strange and wonderful things. (Ask me about The Council of Ducks of 2244.) But don’t query me for winning lottery ticket numbers, because you don’t really want to meet all your extended family, do you?

When people ask what I do for a living, I tell them I'm an elevator-button salesman. Then I ask them if they've ever seen those domed buttons that light up yellow. When they vaguely nod yes, I say, "Yeah, I don't sell that particular model." I fib about my occupation because if I tell them the truth, that I'm a duck farmer, they simply wouldn't believe me.

Here is a historical fact that somehow gets overlooked, and might seem controversial, but it just simply is true: The Beastie Boys should only be listened to by deaf people. Any other time it plays over speakers, it should be considered torture and an act of war. Even ducks, the songbirds of the feathered swimmers, hate The Beastie Boys, and consider them to be The Three Stooges of the musical world, with all of the vocal talent of Gilbert Gottfried.

You say you know these streets pretty well? The city knows you better than any living person because it has seen you when you are alone. It saw you steeling yourself for the job interview, slowly walking home after the late date, tripping over nonexistent impediments on the sidewalk. It saw you wince when the single frigid drop fell from the air-conditioner 12 stories up and zapped you. It saw the bewilderment on your face as you stepped out of the stolen matinee, incredulous that there was still daylight after such a long movie. It saw you half-running up the street after you got the keys to your first apartment. It saw all that. Remembers too. Consider what all your old apartments would say if they got together to swap stories. They could piece together the starts and finishes of your relationships, complain about your wardrobe and musical tastes, gossip about who you are after midnight. 7J says, ''So that's what happened to Lucy; I knew it would never work out.'' You picked up yoga, you put down yoga, you tried various cures. You tried on selves and got rid of them, and this makes your old rooms wistful: why must things change? 3R says: ''Saxophone, you say? I knew him when he played guitar.'' Cherish your old apartments and pause for a moment when you pass them. Pay tribute, for they are the caretakers of your reinventions.

The conversation swings from the brothers Bush to the war in Iraq to the emerging rights of Muslim women to postfeminism to current cinema—Mexican, American, European (Giorgio goes spasmodically mad over Bu-ñuel), and back to Mexican again—to the relative superiority of shrimp over any other kind of taco to the excellence of Ana’s paella, to Ana’s childhood, then to Jimena’s, to the changing role of motherhood in a postindustrial world, to sculpture, then painting, then poetry, then baseball, then Jimena’s inexplicable (to Pablo) fondness for American football (she’s a Dallas Cowboys fan) over real (to Pablo) fútbol, to his admittedly adolescent passion for the game, to the trials of adolescence itself and revelations over the loss of virginity and why we refer to it as a loss and now Óscar and Tomás, arms over each other’s shoulders, are chanting poetry and then Giorgio picks up a guitar and starts to play and this is the Juárez that Pablo loves, this is the city of his soul—the poetry, the passionate discussions (Ana makes her counterpoints jabbing her cigarette like a foil; Jimena’s words flow like a gentle wave across beach sand, washing away the words before; Giorgio trills a jazz saxophone while Pablo plays bass—they are a jazz combo of argument), the ideas flowing with the wine and beer, the lilting music in a black night, this is the gentle heartbeat of the Mexico that he adores, the laughter, the subtle perfume of desert flowers that grow in alleys alongside garbage, and now everyone is singing— México, está muy contento, Dando gracias a millares… —and this is his life—this is his city, these are his friends, his beloved friends, these people, and if this is all that there is or will be, it is enough for him, his world, his life, his city, his people, his sad beautiful Juárez… —empezaré de Durango, Torreón y Ciudad de