Wish it was Paris. 1949. Me and a full-bodied glass of red wine. Little Parisian flat. Open window. Autumn breeze. Radio on. Hello, it’s Django and Stephane. Light up a cigarette. Plume of smoke blown above my head. Mmm. Waiting for her. She’ll be here soon in her cranberry colored dress and high heels. Cigarettes and coffee until the night well ages. All the while I hear that guitar. Who played like Django? Three fingered solos. Make me wanna cry. Never another. On the day of my death, please play a little Django for me. Soothing notes to buoy as I sink slowly into that dark unknown. Django? Can you hear me? Wish I knew you.