Improvised music has been at the center of my creative algorithm. It is the language which has no written heritage, no cardinal pull, no gestation period, no destination. It is the language of passion. Pure and oft times chaotic, it has been my preferred and most honest form of communication. It is said that the Devil finds work for idle hands. The implication here is that the product is of a lascivious and otherwise criminal nature. But I find that holds true for those of a certain ilk, predetermined by moral fibre (or better yet, lack thereof) and a disregard for constructive behavior. In our quarantine of late, state ordered or self imposed, my musical brother and fellow band mate Ralph Gray and myself managed to chisel away at the stone that is idle time. We found our way to Ralph's practice room (which had been forged by the same isolated hours that had turned many a person into the most prestigious of banana bread artisans) and managed to converse in the language of improv. Like paranormal investigators hoping to capture that gem of an EVP or the proverbial shadow person, we plugged into the board and let the hard-disk spin. And in the final hours of our conversing, just as we were ready to call it a day, we caught that voice. The sound of communication. The power to convey, without words, in a language we can all easily understand.