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001: Does that make me crazy? [ ACTION ]
Β»ACTION: HAMETE STRIP MALL
[ Just outside of Hamete Strip Mall the croon of a saxophone overlays the rustlings of retail. The sound is piercing and powerful, dappled with shrill highs that dip into plush, undulating lows. Notes fire at rapid succession, whirling into existence from the lips of a tall, dark haired man whoβs swaying to their rhythmic influence. Beside him a black sax case sits open on the pavement with a scrap of cardboard propped up against it. There's something scrawled across it. It reads, "Hey, I'm Gren. I spent all of my money on this sax." Gren, our responsible musician, has his eyes closed and his brow is furrowed by concentration, but his mind is nowhere near Genessia City.
The memory is mundane and old and foggy around the edges. A woman hums at a sink full of dishes as a relic of a CD player sputters out the sound of an old tune. The song was ancient to even his mother, released years before she was born and several decades before he was. Nevertheless she loved it and as a side effect of its repetitious play he came to love it too. She's singing it now, questioning the room around her with a voice that sounds like itβs swaddled in a heap of velvet, rich and fervent. Does that make me crazy? Does that make me crazy? In the present, released from that recollective trance, Gren breathes the last note of the song into his sax and then answers nobody. ]
Possibly. . .
[ Gren's new, unemployed, and broke. Won't you spare a bill or two? ]
[ Just outside of Hamete Strip Mall the croon of a saxophone overlays the rustlings of retail. The sound is piercing and powerful, dappled with shrill highs that dip into plush, undulating lows. Notes fire at rapid succession, whirling into existence from the lips of a tall, dark haired man whoβs swaying to their rhythmic influence. Beside him a black sax case sits open on the pavement with a scrap of cardboard propped up against it. There's something scrawled across it. It reads, "Hey, I'm Gren. I spent all of my money on this sax." Gren, our responsible musician, has his eyes closed and his brow is furrowed by concentration, but his mind is nowhere near Genessia City.
The memory is mundane and old and foggy around the edges. A woman hums at a sink full of dishes as a relic of a CD player sputters out the sound of an old tune. The song was ancient to even his mother, released years before she was born and several decades before he was. Nevertheless she loved it and as a side effect of its repetitious play he came to love it too. She's singing it now, questioning the room around her with a voice that sounds like itβs swaddled in a heap of velvet, rich and fervent. Does that make me crazy? Does that make me crazy? In the present, released from that recollective trance, Gren breathes the last note of the song into his sax and then answers nobody. ]
Possibly. . .
[ Gren's new, unemployed, and broke. Won't you spare a bill or two? ]