A man walks into a bar.

She wore red bunny ears on her head, like her own personal joke.
I chose a small table on the terrace overlooking the small tree lined stage and ordered a glass of red wine and an ashtray.
Although the band strictly played smooth jazz, she lead the band with closed eyes and a forehead wrinkled with joy into something more exciting, something which transcended the usual innocuousness of cafe jazz and drew the audience in.
Overhead the half moon shone behind a haze of cloud, casting a wide circle of light onto the black sky.
Leaning on the piano, eyes closed, she smiled to herself and walked over to her saxaphone. Bringing it to her mouth she softly licked her lips and gave a slight grimace.
A low vibration shook the garden and a hush softly descended.
Lifting her leg behind her, she blew her passion with such restraint you could feel the goosebumps in the air. The band behind her added their own notes and beats, each with a such different personality they seemed at first to clash.
But soon the swirling piano and the drum mis-beats seemed to flow into one another and melt into the now mecurial saxaphone. The air was charged, and people not sure what to do with all this energy, burst into spontaneous applause which only lifted the now feverish band to even greater heights.
Slowly, and with amazing self control, they returned to earth with warmth and satisfaction.
My wine almost finished, I felt exhausted but exhilirated.

And so ended a day which, despite not having any particular feature to speak of, seemed almost perfect.
Ballet dancers on stilts, deliciously stocked bookstores, wonderful Portuguese food, and a good old Japanese art film all melded together to provide for the perfect evening.
Melancholy has at least taught me to like being with myself.