JAZZ
They rush through one’s veins. The walls are elastic. Large and small trumpets are partly in red stream water. Spinning round and round. Click-click, Da-ddy. They’ve been traveling for so many years, but they have forgotten everything in the world. Thirst. Hunger. Rest. The father and son trumpeter duo kept encouraging each other. The father would overtake his son, wave at him happily, and exclaim, “Giddy up, now! Faster, boy!” They were sweating. The father would disappear from view. The boy would strain his eyes and try to spot him. Where are you, Father? Which way did you turn? Did you slip into a capillary? Hello? Hello? Where are you? Toot, toot. The boy’s trumpet touches a wall. He falls down. His hand slides into a hot orifice. There’s only one tooth left in his father’s mouth
