In that purely mental dreamscape where we all wander at times-driving alone or staring out windows or thinking about not thinking at all – there’s a nightclub you might like to drop by. It doesn’t have a name, and it may look a bit different each time you step through the imaginary doors, but the bartender always knows your drink, the scotch is smooth with just enough bite, the lights are comfortably low, and there’s a tall, well-tailored man sitting behind the piano painting a subtle rendition of a blues.

His fingers brushstroke the keys, smoothly layering light chords over a hushed, darker rhythm; then he leans back and sings with a confident, bittersweet voice that is maybe a little too romantic, too hallowed for a place like this.