John Marsh

You might catch a glimpse of john in the coffee shop, or strolling on the beach at night, if you didn't find him at home in his house in the hills at the edge of town. if you were to seek him there, you'd find a small but cozy little wooden house with a fireplace always burning. there's a few cats and dogs hanging around outside (and in), and as you enter you'll hear music - it might be one of the hundreds of records/tapes/cds you see lining the walls around you, or it might be from john and his friends pickin instruments of every description in the jam room at the back of the house (or on the front porch, on nice days). there's a delicious smell permeating the house from a just-cooked meal, spicy and tasty, and you somehow can't resist when he offers you a plate-full. the walls that aren't covered in records etc are lined with thousands of books of every description, and you risk spending your evening browsing through them if you're so inclined. an almost constant stream of visitors come and go, bearing instruments, smiles, and conversations weaving language, poetry, philosophy, religion, & music together into a seamless web of ideas that ebb, flow, and swirl around you. the distinct, sweet smell of sacred herbs overtakes your consciousness, and at first you don't realize that there's a nuzzling, purring white cat in your lap, sweetly but firmly demanding your attention, which seems to have wandered... but it doesn't matter, because your belly is full, your head is in the right space, and there's music in your ears.

Continue onward... Kyra

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