I take myself out of the dereliction, feeling unsafe in the squalid world of the half-life
I retire to the Japanese coffee shop and art gallery, where jazz music plays soulful
I look back on my photographs of Beckett, and that wild phantom of a man whose name evades me right now
Yet twenty five years past I saw his ghostly portraits, back then I thought, as I think now, there is the man who captured the troubled soul
The French jazz singer seemingly achieves only that half-way point of angst, in her search for today’s equilibrium
