he dreams in the key of B flat.

he wishes he remembers all his scales and still could play solos, keep time, and read his rhythms.
he knows that people come and go but characters live forever.
he wonders if the efforts and heart of his life fall into the category of non-fiction, for they are his truth.
or fiction, as the world always seems to label persons who possess such faith.
was he in fact a person?
perhaps a character in a disposable novel.
just a figment of our imagination.
he leaves, not sure of ever finding himself again.
for people come and go, but characters live forever.