so here i'm sitting, laying, on my bed, listening to miles davis doing his thing. because my dearest philosophy professor zimmerman, so colourful and charming and a little fantastical, absolutely adores him (more than i as he actually met him as a wee boy, oh yes). he called davis a sublime musician, so ready to share and teach his art, yet, all in all...a jerk. but i don't care- as long as he talks to me through a trumpet. these are my favourite times, when i don't have to think about all the real-life people who fall into categories so easily, and prove time and time again that they belong there. that's alright too, mostly because there's a deeper rooted reason, a little because i can close my eyes and pretend they are not there.