He floats on the music, his voice disembodied.
Up and above the stage, into the lights, their inferno cores, and through into the very ink itself.
He is red, purple, blue, yellow, green; pulsating in beat, harmony and tune.
No longer Rufus, he is air, earth, fire and water; elemental.
A verse comes, passes into a chorus.
He knows not time, space or place.
He is the in-between and the edge of all things.
He is music.
He is life.
He is light.
