(And I, I am no longer of that world) Naked, he lies in the blinded room chainsmoking, cradled by drugs, by jazz as never by any lover's cradling flesh. Miles Davis coolly blows for him: O pena negra, sensual Flamenco blues; the red clay foxfire voice of Lady Day (lady of the pure black magnolias) sobsings her sorrow and loss and fare you well, dryweeps the pain his treacherous jailers have released him from for a while. His fears and his unfinished self await him down in the anywhere streets. He hides on the dark side of the moon, takes refuge in a stained-glass cell, flies to a clockless country of crystal. Only the ghost of Lady Day knows where he is. Only the music. And he swings oh swings: beyond complete immortal now.