I dream of a place, a city I have never been too. The most amazing thing is the sound. Music spills out from every door, window and stranger on the street. Some music is visual, colors like piled up notes, stacked in flowerpots and dashing around corners. I can close my eyes and lift into the air, horizontal and rippled. I can ride the sound wave, like a cartoon where the character floats on a delicious aroma until he finds the source, then he gets to eat the pie. Jazz pie, cooling on the windowsill.