Lights dimmed by an unseen hand, the bass player plucked out a steady heartbeat as a I stepped to the microphone and began a poetry reading in a funky bookstore bar in Lisbon, Portugal, backed by the heartbeat, a humming piano, shuffling percussion, cheers, coughs, and a stray cackle from the audience packed like a can of sardines, and the occasional trumpet blast that sliced through my stanzas like they were freshly baked bread.

The evening was magical.