Between the rain Scarlotti Stabat Mater and Coltrane, two wildly different stratospheres, I veer once again to the espresso pot, cast lots for what remains of sacred dregs, boil an egg, talk to the closed curtains voting for outer darkness which agrees with me believing with my ears, in harmony, in Coltrane's primacy of breath and brass, here's a brash Shabbas too-full-in prayer,
pigeon and dove wars going on other side of curtain, their flutings shakuhachi-like pipe in random chorus tandem w my aged but still high fidelics.
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