Return to Sender.

When you sneak in through those trendy doors, tell me how it goes.

That cafe with its hazy brown ceiling and tattered peeling wallpaper. The usuals all at their usual spots. You tip your hat and they tip back.

And over there in that corner, crooning is that old man with his old cage of notes. In the corner, it's what used to be a piano and the player that plays its elephant keys. The old man older than old--with sunken eyes and ghost skin. That Christmas present left unopen, with his music box beating in his chest. With his hazy eyes and his fingers tapping bone on bone. Make sure you tip the man your last silver piece.

And who's that voice. It's none other than yours. And your audience--watch for Miles tonight, he'll be in that deep corner. And in his silhouette he'll slowly paint genius and whisper sweet secrets under his hazy breath. And don't forget Frank, maybe tonight he'll ask for your encore.

Dress for the occasion, slide with the crowd. Velvet hats and gloves in shades of vanilla, wear it swank and sell it savvy. Which way does that serpentine flow when they drag cigarettes away from their lips? Does it ebb to the left or fan to the right?

But don't miss a second. Don't miss a glimpse--catch your corners and snatch your senses. Ink their music into your lungs and soak their syllables into your tongue. Leave it all in your postcard sent.

Don't leave that cafe without inspiration. Don't end this letter without ingenuity.