He didn't know how to play anymore. He never really knew how to begin with. But that night, sitting on his apartment floor with the laptop open and the 320kbps file looping, he put his fingers on the frets. The strings bit into his skin. It hurt. It was glorious.
His throat tightened. He remembered driving with the windows down, blasting this, convinced that any day now, his real life would start. A life of meaning. Of volume. Of not caring that he ate lunch alone.
"It's my life… it's now or never…"
