03.22.06

It occurs to me that I cant write happy stories

I see him every Thursday, sitting there in the corner of the caf� with those blue lights pulsating around him, the clacking of words going through the air (this shows demonstratively that; what Sartre meant was clearly; obviously wrong) and his fingers stroking the neck of some invisible guitar.
They say that every guitar is a woman, that every guitar has a name, and when you play you are holding her waist, caressing her until she makes just the right sounds, until she shudders and vibrates in just the right frequency against you. It can be gentle, lightly plucking, both hands sweetly dancing. It can be harsher, painful, grinding and fingers bleeding.
He closes his eyes as his fingers wave over the air, hunches over his imaginary love. I want to tell him to stop. He doesn�t see, it�s pointless like that. The air won�t sing under his fingers.

shi-ou-sama at 11:11 a.m.

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