The Old Guitarist

It was a quiet, lonely night. The man sat, sinking in on himself on his bedroom floor. The world was still, and a faint blue hue attached itself to every inch of him and his house as twilight approached. This blue touched everything except the guitar in his arms. The guitar was long, brown, and was his only life source. He strummed, a hollow yet melodic noise escaping the instrument. His bony hands and frail arms lazily swayed up and down to create the tunes that would never be forgotten by him. Original sounds flowed out of the guitar and into the air, mixing with the melancholy sense of approaching resolution.

He was still alone, and would always be alone. The dark parts of his mind became his world. The torn shirt, unkempt facial hair, and nakedness of malnutrition all contributed to the fragility of his existence and his loneliness. No one was to come for him as there was no one left. He had his guitar as his only friend now, and even that was becoming an impossible feat. He allowed himself to settle in, cross-legged and emotional, until his last moments were breaths of the art that both sustained him with life and burdened him with failure.

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