Jazz. Delectable art divulged like chocolate into the ears of philosophers to philanthropists. Constructed and built on emotions, and celebrated from every direction. That raspy drawl of trombones and oh-so-perfectly overblown saxophones creating the true sound of brass. Creating the word, brass. The brassy wind breathing through colonized fields of golden wheat and barley. That inscription in a language of pure harmony and imagination. Where the man on the moon plays a muted echo of a trumpet that can be heard from Heaven, and Heaven on Earth. Where Adele is just a singer and menswear is a prescription because jazz is your drug now. Goodbye banjos and mix tapes, and computerized projections! I found a world where I belong. I'll be in Amy Winehouse's closet found in the living room of Tony Bennett's mansion. This is where I belong. Jazz is my drug. From that raspy drawl of trombones and oh-so-perfectly overblown saxophones creating the true sound of brass.