After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music.

- Aldous Huxley

The band was stomping through Ellington's 'Far East of the Blues,' and the director shot his cool, focused gaze on me, slightly nudging his head in my direction, the way one turns one's head slightly when first waking in the refreshing cold of dawn. My pulse quickening, I placed the mouthpiece between my lips, swallowing the bitter, metallic-wooden taste, and, as is wont to happen, my words became melody. I closed my eyes; I wasn't following the chart, and for all I know, I didn't even play the scale I was supposed to solo over (F blues). I didn't notice the drums, the two saxes beside me simply disappeared.

I disintegrated as well. Everything I wanted to say, nothing I didn't, some things I couldn't and wouldn't and shouldn't...in short, a soul...it became air, it became breath, diving into the horn, making sharp, non-sensical turns around elegant curves of brass...it all became one sound and eight sounds, unified and separate. Oscillating between high and low, climbing, diving. Joy; harmony. Despair; dissonance. Self-reflection; the spaces between; breath.

My eyes opened, and the band kept playing. Everyone resumed their position; the music continued, the beat of the drum matching the throbbing in my fingers, staccato and steady.