The neon buzz of the jukebox is howling at the moon, man, while we sit in these cracked leather booths, holy and ragged, watching the kid across the street kick a tin can through the gutter-slush—he’s got the whole wide wild universe in his toes, no jazz-guilt, no dharma-debt, just the pure unadulterated swing of the soul before the city puts its heavy thumb on the scale. We’re all vibrating on different frequencies, chasing the phantom of a sunrise that doesn't demand an explanation, but that kid, he’s the realest cat in the alley, a golden monk in a hand-me-down coat, existing in the white-hot 'Now' where the light doesn't bend for nobody, just burns clean and bright like a candle in a windless cathedral of smog.