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“Play jazz; there is no melody, just notes, a myriad of short jolts. They know no rest; an inflexible order generates and destroys them; never leaving them time to recover, to exist for themselves. They run, they huddle together, they give me a sharp blow as I pass and they are annihilated. I would like to hold them, but I know that if I were to stop one, only a languid, roguish sound would remain between my fingers. I have to accept his death; I must even want this death; I know of few rougher or stronger impressions.“                                                                            

Jean Paul Sartre.

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