Home is where the heart is. His heart is in the city. From a distance, it stands as an artificial mountain tha bends the sunlight with glass and mortar. The buildings flaunt unique qualities, but are bound to conformity by their nature. The gears are always moving: shoes shuffle on the sidewalks, clouds roll overhead, the ambience of passing cars clashes with soft melodies. The music rises from a remote corner of this massive mountain where a true musician sits.
The man's appearance reveals his profession. Years spent dragging his fingers over the guitar's strings have left them rough and blistered. They are long fingers with more bone than flesh. The clothes he wears are ragged and ruined. They were once expensive, but now the cracked leather and tarnished buttons serve only to remind him of his prosperous past.
His eyes are tired from witnessing the never-ending changes of life. The hope they once held spilled out onto the pavement long ago. Now they stare straight ahead, not seeing anything while he is lost in thought. Strangely enough, he smiles quietly, a rebellion against his situation.
The sidewalk is his humble stage. His guitar leans gently against his body and is a part of him. Playing is automatic. A billboard across the way advertises a local music store. Games, shows, and merchandise with the musical motif have all appeared at one time or another. To him, it is all the work of pesky businessmen who prostitute beauty in the hope of third quarter gains.
This is where beauty lies. As always, authenticity goes unnoticed. The strings shake, propelling notes that he fashioned together, and they float on the breeze. His music flows through the city. It follows the bricks bodly, striking out to find an audience before being lost in the traffic.
