I start from one point and go as far as possible. But

Host: The club was empty, except for the ghost of music still hanging in the air — that soft, aching aftertaste that only jazz could leave behind. The stage lights had dimmed to amber, their glow cutting through the thin smoke that curled from the ashtray on the piano.

Outside, the city hummed in the dark, neon flickering like the heartbeat of something restless.

Jack sat on the edge of the stage, a saxophone in his lap, its brass catching the faintest glint of light. Jeeny leaned against the bar, a half-empty glass before her, her eyes following the faint curve of the instrument as though it held a secret she’d once known.

Between them, a piece of paper lay open on the piano, its ink slightly smeared, as if written in the middle of a solo:

“I start from one point and go as far as possible. But, unfortunately, I never lose my way. I ‘localize,’ which is to say that I think always in a given space. I rarely think of the whole of a solo, and only very briefly. I always return to the small part of the solo that I was in the process of playing.” — John Coltrane

Jack: (softly, tapping the saxophone key) “You ever think, Jeeny, that Coltrane wasn’t talking about music at all — but about life?”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Of course he was. Every note he played was a confession disguised as melody. That’s what made him prophetic — not the sound, but the struggle behind it.”

Jack: “The struggle of being lost?”

Jeeny: “No. The struggle of never being able to be lost. That’s the tragedy he’s talking about. To always know where you are — to always ‘localize.’ It means you never get to discover anything new.”

Jack: (laughs quietly) “That’s poetic, but impractical. You can’t just wander forever, Jeeny. Even Coltrane had to find his structure — his bars, his tempo, his chords. Maybe he hated being found, but he still needed the frame.”

Host: The smoke rose like music without rhythm, and the light shimmered across the saxophone’s curve, turning it into something alive — breathing, shimmering, human.

Jeeny took a sip from her glass and set it down with deliberate grace.

Jeeny: “Structure doesn’t mean safety, Jack. It just gives the illusion of control. He said he always returned to the small part he was in. That’s all of us, isn’t it? We live like we’re playing a solo, but we only ever think of the measure we’re trapped inside.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s what makes it bearable — to focus on one small section instead of the whole score. The big picture is too heavy. You start thinking of the whole solo, you stop playing.”

Jeeny: “But that’s the difference between existing and living, Jack. To live is to risk the dissonance, to chase the impossible key change. He said, ‘unfortunately, I never lose my way.’ You hear that? The regret. To be lost is to expand. To always know where you are is to stay small.”

Host: A train rumbled faintly in the distance, like an echo of some forgotten bassline. The club’s shadows deepened, stretching across the floor like chords unresolved.

Jack raised the saxophone, his fingers resting on the keys, but he didn’t play. His voice was a low, smoky whisper.

Jack: “So you’d rather be lost?”

Jeeny: “I’d rather be searching.”

Jack: “You think they’re different?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Being lost means you’re afraid you won’t find your way. Searching means you hope you will.”

Jack: (after a pause) “You think Coltrane was searching or lost?”

Jeeny: “Both. That’s why we still listen to him. Because he never stopped playing his own question.”

Host: The light flickered, the rain beginning to fall outside — slow, steady, almost rhythmic. The sound mixed with the faint hum of the neon sign above the door that read Blue Halo.

Jack’s face softened. For the first time, he looked less like a man arguing, and more like one remembering.

Jack: “You know, when I used to play, I thought the point was to reach the end of the solo. To finish it, to tie it off neatly. But now I think maybe the point was just to keep going. To stay inside the note you’re in — like he said — and go as far as possible before you come back.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s creation. Not about reaching the final bar, but about finding God in the measure you’re in. Coltrane wasn’t chasing perfection — he was chasing presence.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Presence. That’s what you call it when someone’s brave enough to stay in the same note too long?”

Jeeny: “That’s what I call it when someone listens deeply enough to hear it change.”

Host: The rain intensified, the sound of each drop hitting the window merging with the faint tapping of Jack’s fingers on the saxophone. He finally lifted it to his lips, drew in a slow breath, and played a single, low note — warm, trembling, imperfect.

It hung in the air, hovering, refusing to end.

Jeeny closed her eyes, her lips curving into a faint smile, as if she could see the sound itself taking shape.

Jeeny: “See? You’re in it now. That’s what he meant — one point, as far as possible. You can stay there forever and never repeat yourself.”

Jack: (after the note fades) “And yet, it still ends.”

Jeeny: “Everything ends. But that’s not the tragedy — the tragedy is to end without having been inside it.”

Host: The room was silent again. The rain softened into mist. The neon sign buzzed faintly, its blue light flickering over the two of them — the musician and the listener, the thinker and the believer, the soloist and the silence that followed him.

Jack set the saxophone down carefully, his hands trembling slightly, not from weakness, but from reverence.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what I envy about him — that he could live in the middle of the solo and call it home. Me, I keep trying to think of the whole thing. The arc. The design.”

Jeeny: “That’s your curse — you need to see the whole map before you move. But life isn’t a composition, Jack. It’s a jam session. You only ever know what’s true in the bar you’re playing.”

Jack: “And what if you play the wrong note?”

Jeeny: “Then play the next one right. That’s jazz — and that’s being alive.”

Host: The rain stopped. A thin beam of light slipped through the window, touching the saxophone, making it gleam like something sacred.

Jeeny stood, moving toward the door, her shadow long and soft across the floorboards.

She turned, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jeeny: “You don’t need to know the whole of the solo, Jack. You just have to mean the part you’re in.”

Jack: (after a pause, smiling faintly) “And if I never lose my way?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you were never really playing.”

Host: She was gone, leaving the scent of rain and music behind. Jack sat alone in the half-dark, the saxophone gleaming, the quote still on the piano, its ink catching the lamplight like an invitation:

“I start from one point and go as far as possible. But, unfortunately, I never lose my way.”

He picked up the horn again.

And as the first note rose — uncertain, searching — the city outside seemed to pause, listening.

Because somewhere between the measured bars and the infinite space between them,
he was no longer just a man with a saxophone.

He was Coltrane’s heir,
and the night —
his solo.