The following is an excerpt taken from a life. It is merely a work of fiction:
There is a man playing the guitar in my garage. Electric. Not loud. Beautiful. The guitar rests against his leg. He is playing along to a CD. There is a light in one corner casting a thin glow, shadows everywhere. I could listen to him for an hour. No, a day. Longer. He is concentrating, his head moving softly with the notes. There is stillness and motion. It is almost like a movie.
If I was a writer I would write a story about it. It would be filled with metaphor and heat. It would be beautiful.
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