Someone might say they don't like jazz. But I don't know if this is jazz. These are three friends. Sitting there. And they play. An old song. They play it, as if for themselves. They play it, for him. Whose mother named him Bill. They play it. Like inside of us. With closed eyes. With the mundane, childish hope that the music won't end. That he is close by.
A wonder. Absolute. To be felt with closed eyes. To be felt with the heart.
Duke Ellington, Lotus Blossom (Trio) (Strayhorn)