The blinds are closed, but light still shines through. One bed in the room is neatly made, but the other is messy. There are papers spread atop it and a guitar case, open but empty, is sitting on the floor beside the bed. There is a desk that spreads across the small room, a bookshelf on either side. The right side of the desk is neat, the chair nicely pushed in and every single book in it’s proper place. The left side, however, has pens lacking ink, pencils with snapped tips, and crumpled up papers that failed to reach the recycling box.
Her back is red and her neck is long. She is a gorgeous woman. She sings loudly; beautiful sounds spewing out from her mouth. Six strings race up her neck, vibrating and pulsing; they are her vocal chords. A small hand gently kneads her neck while another softly pulls on her strings; they are her reason to sing. She is nameless, but people call to her. She is faceless, but easily recognized. Intricate tattoos of vines twirl around her face with a silky white dove in the midst of it all. She is an it, and it is a guitar.
Some people love sports. Others love the sciences. But I love music.