The grim atmosphere of this night displays a façade of unending boredom and bleakness. An occasional breeze rustles the ragged, jagged boughs of surrounding trees and forces begrudging, weathered leaves into a dizzying flight through the nocturnal void. Instantly, a shimmer of sonic bliss pierces the night and casts the accompanying gloom into oblivion’s endless depths. Soon, these ethereal utterances expand into a cascade of melodic harmonies, emanating from within a warm, cozy house.
Here, in the battlefield of his room, a young man sits entrenched. On a throne of seemingly endless chaos consisting of dirty clothes, shoes, school books, and many other miscellaneous oddities, he wages an intense battle. Deep within the recesses of his mind, he has receded into a realm of vivid vibrations and splendid sounds. Thus, armed with his weapon of choice, he unleashes a war-cry against the oppressive demons of the night. His dexterous fingers, engaged in a well-practiced dance, support this rally. And so, this tango proceeds atop a worn dancefloor of wood and metal, strings and frets.
It extends to his other hand, which whirs back and forth between the sparkling strings. At times he strums boisterous chords; other times he elicits soothing arpeggios and crooning licks from the careworn instrument. Regardless of the tune, and even regardless of whether his beloved guitar or his unceremonious voice dominates the room, the young man unleashes his troubles into the night to be heard by no one. And yet, as he transitions songs, he sometimes swears that the unobtrusive noises of the night are actually the whisperings of an angelic choir.