It’s just the ringing in my ears
There are stories in bars. Not the stories of the people—we all know people have their stories. It’s the stories of eras long gone. Of no electrical wires plugged into instruments and oil lamps on the walls. Of smooth jazz when it was first being discovered, with the wails of a trumpet and saxophone carrying conversation between them. Of male and female jacks connecting reverberations to harmonics to feedback to eager ears and spilling drinks. There’s blood in these walls, pulsing over years and years, and it’ll never run dry.