MOG

No, that's not a bass you hear; that's a heartbeat — a heartbeat of someone not quite like you and I, but similar enough to have a heart that beats and bleeds (and, sadly, leaves). It's a heartbeat buried deep and far away, but still strong enough to vibrate two metal strings and broadcast itself out to you (and make no mistake: there are things standing nearby that you cannot see listening to frequencies of those vibrations that you cannot hear).

Drums kick in — there are things in the next room; they know you know they're there, and they don't have to be quiet anymore.

The saxophone circulates through the room, thick and immaterial as fog. You can feel it brushing against your skin as if you could open your hand to catch it, but it slips through your fingers as they close. It slips around and through those two strings, pulsing a compliment that steps and hesitates like someone about to open a door.

And the voice, smooth and rough like ash still hanging from a cigarette. With no regret, it tells you a story of offers, temptations, a piper followed. You can see the path, close and clear enough that it seems you can follow that voice out of that room to ... you're not sure what that voice will lead you, but you know that when you tell the story to another, you'll tell them that since you met the devil, you ain't been the same.

(Dedicated to our absent insane Greek.)