(no subject)
The fire here is nice. The wine is, too. That is why, despite the lateness of the hour, in the bar is a hippie lounging on the couch with a borrowed guitar on his stomach and a glass on the floor within easy reach. He's strumming the strings idly, the sound soft because it is an electric guitar and he hasn't brought the amp to plug it into. He's just enjoying the fire and the bar smell and sounds for a bit before returning home. Home -- through a door that leads out of the bar to a whole world that's his now, and a little piece of it that matters more than all the rest put together.
He's smiling gently as he plays, his eyes closed and mind far away.
He's smiling gently as he plays, his eyes closed and mind far away.