Sitting at the back of the 7 heading downtown along Gottingen, I was reading Maggie Nelson's /Bluets/, when I noticed you, in a bright blue jacket, talking about jazz with your friend across the aisle. Maybe I was marked by the essay, finding the blue in the world jumping out at me, but you seemed kind and bright: I wanted to ask when I might catch your next gig, but you disembarked before I had the chance. Maybe I'll see you some other foggy morning. —kind of blue