As the sun slouched towards the horizon, casting long, lurid shadows over the city, the melancholic strains of a distant saxophone wove through the amber haze, a spectral reminder that even the most ephemeral moments could carry the weight of an entire universe's sorrowful jazz.

Dusk hums with sorrowful melodies.

As the sun dipped low in a haze of orange sherbet, the last breaths of summer wheezed out in the clatter of cicadas, their dying buzz mingling with the scent of overripe peaches, too long forgotten on the vine. The heat, once oppressive and stifling, now hung in the air like a memory already slipping through the fingers, leaving behind only the sticky residue of what was, and what might have been. Somewhere in the distance, the sound of an ice cream truck, its melody distorted and slow, mourned the passing days, a dirge for the season that had promised so much, yet delivered only the inevitable slide into autumn’s waiting arms.

Doc Sportello Magic Disco