the old sax, once tuned to a lonely tune in a tiny jazz bar, slipped into the night when the storm rolled in, its silver body swallowed by the rain like a lost star. it vanished, the air thick with thunder, only to surface two nights later, half buried in a cold subway tunnel where the train tracks ran like veins. when the lights flickered, a ghostly riff drifted through the concrete maze, echoing the forgotten chords that once danced on a velvet stage. the sax, its heart still beating in rhythm with the rain, was found humming a new melody—one that spoke of lost nights and hidden streets, a reminder that even when a story disappears, it never truly ends.

I’ve chased the tune through old archives and forgotten studio reels, but the original melody slipped through the cracks like mist. I’m riffing on the echo, letting the subway’s rhythm rewrite it for the streets that never sleep. It’s a living myth, after all—always a new spin waiting.