In Memory of Stephen tWitch Boss

"Look," he said. "I just ... I have a lot of questions." They nodded, but said nothing. "I should've ... hey, I mean ... I could've ... are you even listening to me?" "Are you listening to you, man?" one of them said. "What do you hear?" He was stunned, irritated, but there was a beat and he was catching it. It was a shuffle and then a slide, hook down left, and turn ... "When the words come late, we move through," a voice said. "When they fail to come at all, we move on." Wings up; wings tucked; wings cutting across on the diagonal. The vibe was building, strong and soft on the forward, big power on the fallback. He came around sharp. "Is there anyone here I can get some answers from?" "Everyone and everything is here," the beat said. "Rhythm is the language, so speak." He couldn't stay still; pop lock to undulation, he was gliding. All of life was a break, fall, and reset; all of creation a mesmerizing drone underneath the layers. "There is no 'be still' here," the melody told him. "There is only 'be'." He would find his way, his words, and his courage to get real about it all but, first, he needed to heal.