A blues affair

In that one night, only the trumpet had the courage to hear its own voice lauder and with more echo. The rest of the people were secretly whispering , hidden: where the light of the lanterns could not reach and where the darkness was thicker. The trumpet though, was playing for the whole city: the city was seen from above; the city was seen from a bench that was breaking the string of the old stone stairs - but is there anyone who had seen new stones?

Is there anyone who step on a stone and could precisely say that the stone was brand new? No one...but the trumpet knows that for the one who travels there could be new roads, new lands and new skyes. The trumpet travels a lot and not only on the musical notes scattered on a score. Not only among the rhythms and some kind of insinuated and delicate romance.

The trumpet travels by train, walking, by plane and again walking having a very specific purpose: unknown, but still very specific. It is felt. This purpose could only be felt: it could not be put in words and it could not be discussed - because it could not be explained.

In that one night, it was a bright moon and calm air. Above the city, at the tower, everything is quiet. From distance or more closely, some cheerful giggles could be heard - for good jokes or useless fun. In the tired air, tinded with a scent of acacia and fresh grass, the trumpet sounds more tired and more charming: the slow and slightly tangled trumpet. It's name is Carlos: it plays blues.