(no subject)
He's bent over his guitar, his face so at one with the body that the curved ridge above the soundhole digs into his cheek. His eyes look closed from here, but maybe they hover open a little just above the neck, his world becoming one of cabled metal strings and dancing unearthly fingers. And music, of course, which is where he truly is - he's been improvising for twenty minutes or so. What gets me is his mouth - it's softly dropped open like a sleeping baby's, and I imagine him drooling on the lacquered wood, a mystic child forgotton, and forgetting the world.