For Eddie

She could not hear the shuffles from where he stood, only the soundwaves they artificially conveyed and the music that came along. Color was wanting from all around him: the rain paled, summing vapors where fabric drew close to freezing, the degrees dropping at the speed of their own sound. In his world, the runway was unheard of and the stylist was far away into another century, ot the next maybe. A sea of solemn faces gathered, quieting at the first note in prayer-like silence. He reflected their endeavors, always knowing just by smoothing phrases others have no right to touch. He began to circle around, crashed the instrument twice, even, and never ever spoke. He had demanded attention after a manner, too. What wasn't there, he replaced with mastery. His arms restrained, features flipping back, his melody descending. His amateurism was lost on her. She stared but didn't spare herself for a moment. She began to question not the others' capacity but the picture they painted. There was greatness in what they know, and only deficiency in his company, and the world all over stood captivated. She couldn't have touched on its entirety; a secret unknown, unspoken, what does a child understand or otherwise know where deification is due? A simple worship, a frequent paying of respects; there are more to them than idle speculations, none of them she could ever explain.