Something sparked in his mind, a falter, and he glanced up from his guitar as his fingers moved deftly and gracefully along the strings, his glance sent briefly to the floor in a fleeting thought. It was the vibe and the feeling that something had been lost, and it was only now on this day that he had let himself truly absorb what changes had occurred, and what changes had yet to fall into place..
Did Marijuana forget... no, no that's not possible, Classic. A wave of what might have become frustration and subdued anger threatened to enter his mind and flow through his fingers into his music, and had such happened the music drifting from him would have turned to a darker sound. But, he wiped away the thought as if it had never existed. He need not doubt his friend. Not today.
And, there he was, sitting across from him, like staring into a mirror. The chords Marijuana chose were perfection, and Classic's trademark half-smile flickered across his face, and he continued to play, words spoken in that quiet, lazy way he did, words that drifted and lost themselves on the notes.
"Good to see you, man."
His mind reached and the song pressed, as if causing the undulating sound of both of their guitars were creating to reach and reach until pulling their free-spirited muse forward. He watched his friend play.
Effortlessly, Ten Years Later became a breed of its own, mingling with notes pulled from Jimi Hendrix, twisting and turning with other notes and melodies like some reverberating Hindu chant. And for a moment, it felt like 1969, smelled like 1969, sounded like 1969.
"Beautiful, beautiful," muttered. This is what he existed for. Creating. Not worrying.