, a novel by.

Alone again. Just him and My Funny Valentine as so often before. And the stars. And his thoughts of past. Not past adventures, just the past. The past before him. The time he can only imagine and live through books, music and movies. He doesn’t fare too well in paintings. They always seem too static, or perhaps he just doesn’t possess the necessary skills to dissect them. Standing in the middle of the room, he tries not to let that hint of loneliness get to him. What does it matter if he’s swaying on his own instead of with someone? As long as Miles is there to lead him. And Herbie, oh Herbie on that piano. He can almost see Herbie’s fingers move so delicately over the keys. Can almost smell the sweet scent of the excited crowd, paradoxically since he always imagines it being a concert just for him. He makes sure to only open his eyes when they point towards the window. Living in the roof apartment has that one advantage: the night sky. What a magnificent sight that is tonight. He feels filled up with a sense of unlimited space. Some nights he just stares at the stars until they disappear, letting even Miles and his friends fall in the background. He often recalls that wonderfully frosty October night last year, when the sky was lit up by shooting stars flying from right above his roof, until they died out in the distance. He used to think the sky was the best thing to man, since it had looked practically the same back in the 80’s, 60’s, 20’s, even the 1890’s, but ever since that night, he has longed for the sky that once was, however beautiful the one above him is.
Rolling his shoulders in rhythm to Ron Carter’s bass, he is caught by the thought that, yes, this tendency is very like him in most of his life. The things at hand never seem satisfying. He has to admit that he felt My Funny Valentine more the first time he heard it, and his head is making suggestions as to what he should be swaying to next instead of committing to the moment. When he reads a book, he knows he could be catching up on his music, the bit he himself plays. When he does play, he feels like his mood is more for writing, and so he never seems to be in one place long enough to get anything started, let alone finished. He knows it’s definitely a contributing fact as to why he’s here swaying alone. Company can only hold his interest for so long. You can be his best buddy, his girlfriend, his mom or dad – for all he knows you can be Earnest Hemingway and still bore him. Though he knows he should invest more time in it, he’s only vaguely on the look-out of what drives him. He found out long ago what drives him mad.
Despite not being a great socialite, he has always had a fierce passion for the few people who do trigger his interest. He wants them, and he wants more of them. He doesn’t want them for long, but as long as he wants them, he wants all of them. It’s not enough just entertaining an idea of what can be, it has to be done. It’s not enough to sit around talking about writing a book together, making a screenplay together, it has to be done. Otherwise it’s just fantasy, and fantasy – oh, he already spends far too much time in that land. A self-proclaimed dreamer, he is always full of thoughts for the people he love whenever they aren’t around him. A thing he would like to change, or at least get something from. Some great inspirational stream of thoughts that can fuel his writings, get him started on the novel he’s always been dreaming about writing, but never been able to dream about. He has lately been hit by the idea that he should start by figuring out his main character, and work his way from there. Not being a man of typically great adventures, he knows he will have to imagine most of them if he is to make life on paper any more daring than his own – and that is where the story starts:

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