Somewhere in there a saxophone is trying.
Three musicians in suits playing sax, upright bass, and drums in a candlelit club. Right in front of them, occupying the entire foreground like a noise complaint given human form, a man in a green sweater is yelling with his whole chest. One hand cupped, other hand up. In front of him sits the most loaded plate of nachos ever committed to oil paint, sour cream peak and all. He is louder than the band and he has always been louder than the band. The drummer’s face says everything you already knew. Every room this man walks into becomes his room, whether anyone invited him or not.