22 May, 2013
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“It is now the fall of my second year in Paris. I was sent here for a reason I have not yet been able to fathom. I have no money, no resources, no hopes. I am the happiest man alive. A year ago, six months ago, i thought I was an artist. I no longer think about it. I am.”
― Henry Miller
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I had love for a woman
some long time ago
she left me broke
took away my soul
So I sang my sorrows
til the blood ran dry
and this here guitar
it absorbed my cry
I was drained of love
but poured it into my song
now the guitar burns red
making right what went wrong.
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Everyone wanted to see them. Locals stopped by at all hours of the day, much to their disbelief. Tourists with cameras slung around striped shirts gawked with hands on hips. “Really?” Marco emphatically gestured and smiled as if to state his innocence. “It just happened”, he said. But what had happend couldn’t be signified to just “just”. The entire fabric of their world had been quietly shredded with one cosmic action. Everyone felt the gravity of what had happened, yet no one understood. Here were two simple objects, a guitar and a violin, yet they were like none before. Their appearance triggered no memories though they had a comforting and motherly-like familiarity. What had happened? What was different? It was color. The Universe saw it fit to inject color into this monochromatic world. Things were going to be different…
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John just wanted his guitar back and he was getting sick of this bloke showing him that he had nothing in his hands…………. the damn thing was right there.
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