Life is a little like jazz, in that it never really feels finished, and involves at least half a musical instrument, and that the performers remain yet unaware of an audience enthralled by their very actions, themselves disappearing into a fugue state of performance -- at times. It has been a while since I've written anything long-form, and I cannot help but notice that even my most daring and saccharine words have been supplanted by a calm, almost quiet vocabulary. This is perhaps a sign that even the deepest roots may shift across a rich bed of soil, if only they were compelled to do so. Bits and pieces of a short story here and there, the soft embers of a massive tome waiting in the wings! Alas. We are once again back to jazz.
Henry Jr. "Indiana" Jones is the quintessential hero.