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Last night, I sat on the porch of El Mercado with a ponytailed old man who had known me for a long time even though I just met him that night. He played the spanish guitar. The song was an apology I had been waiting to hear.

“I can’t make music,” I said after he had finished singing. “I feel music very deeply, it dances me and I dance to it. But I have no idea where it comes from. If you gave me a tambourine nothing would happen. I hardly even hum. I think musicians must be wizards.”

“Oh but you do make music, Cori. My music is the space between the silences. Your music is the space between black and white. I have seen it. I have seen your photographs. I’ll be thinking of them for a very long time.”

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~ by warpaintandwandering on April 4, 2013.

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