"Some things are not meant to be understood." The voice has the slight metallic tinge of Jazz' real body, a sound like the smallest echo ever imagined hiding in the air waves.
"Like music these things need to be lived, to be mourned and cursed and cut out of a beating heart. Like the most effulgent of musical poetry it can only be fully understood once it is too late."
Jazz now lets his avatar melt back into his core, while at the same moment a silver hand is streched out to touch Midvalley's fingers.