Scott Whitby, 2023
It's darker than it usually is. Not too dark but a little darker, like something different is waiting. People are talking, causing wonder if they'd ever stop. Then they are struck mute. It was a C chord I think.
Stories are told. The same ones we know well, the same ones that make us wonder (in every sense of that word). Little, medium-sized, and big angels help. They are the stars.
Strings tell their stories too. Humming, ethereal, punching and moaning, but happy and satisfying - all different but together make one sound. One sound that alone would be meaningless. They are not alone though.
Then the voices. Oh the voices!
The voices deserve more than words. They are pure and throaty. Heavy until they softly land. They cut the dim and fill the space. They deserve more than than words. I don't have them.
Light circled the room. We told each other "love you", shook hands and declared it a good year, understated for sure. We went home, all better.
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