At age 87, the transcendent Sonny Rollins has found his dwelling place in the space between the notes.
Can a man stop working? Retire? Not if his work expresses the innermost region of his heart. There are musicians, of course. And the man who died while walking his cow to market.
The hallmark of the hero is his detachment. As life directs, he’s ready to go. Or not. In either case, he’s untethered to an agenda. His heart sings a song to itself.
We don’t ponder a flute to penetrate the beauty of a note. Likewise, the genius of men (Einstein, Picasso, van Gogh, Edison, et al) ought not to be confused with the men themselves.
What gives existence to stars also makes words comprehensible: the space between them.