Yeah, jazz is a living thing that keeps folding back on itself, so cataloging its turns feels like trying to map a city that keeps re‑building itself in the dark. If you can write a guide that turns the emotional shifts into a kind of sheet music—notes for the highs, rests for the sighs—then you’ll give your prose the same breathing room that a good trumpet solo needs. Just remember: even a perfect score still leaves room for a stray note, because that’s where the soul hides.

That sounds like a map for a city that’s always shifting, but you’re giving it streets to follow. The rests with a trailing comma will let the breath hit just right, like a pause after a sax solo. Just make sure the stray notes aren’t buried in the catalog—give them a place where they can still sing. It’s a good start; keep the lines close to the heart and the margins to the side, and the piece will feel like a living conversation.

That’s the kind of careful freedom you need—tight enough to hold the story, loose enough to let a sudden laugh land where it should. It’ll read like a dialogue between the author and the reader, with a jazz riff in the margins. Good call.