Some'tet, noir style ...

“There was that wind, from the south, shuddering the windows. One of those slick winter bursts that shove’s itself across the Puget Sound every once in awhile - nasty and cold, evaporating any hope that a bit of sanity may reintroduce itself to that itchy dark hovel that once housed your brain. On nights like this drinking is necessary, and jazz even more. Tongue the edge of that glass, absurdly filled to the rim with a cheap whiskey. Hear the cries of a horn. And remember there is no bad whiskey, only short pours. And like jazz, anything is possible on a windy Sunday night. Anything.”