Mr. Baldwin once told me a story.

We followed a young man. He was dying.

I wept. But Mr. Baldwin smiled at me – 

The man was loving, living, and playing.

I grew anxious. To be a musician…

To not simply see fear, but to touch it;

To submit to blood and sun of passion;

To taunt and tempt rage; to feel the spirit!

At the time, I thought music was music.

But I know why he kissed the world with notes.

Universalism unnerves the sick.

I want to climb, so I break through the moats.

His music and your soul are my words. Who’s?

My name is Sonny, and I have the blues.