Observations from a performance by Ben Kyle

He sings from his heart to a crowded room. The lyrics drift through air, intermingling with the cigarette smoke like ideas in the mind. The people sit wherever there’s room, on top of the fading pool table or right on the dirty tiled floor. Some of them are focused on the musician, their eyes attentively watching his every move. Others are staring at the tiles, letting the music wash over them. A guy sitting on the pool table flips through the books he just bought at the used bookshop next door. The singer closes his eyes and lets the words roll forth, letting them bounce off the ceiling, off the inattentive ears, off the mismatched ceiling lamps and into the soul of the few people there who were really listening.

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