The smile that had rested quietly within his features spread to something a little more uplifting as he followed his old friend's trajectory through the door, and settled on him as Marijuana lackadaisically seated himself nearby. Watching him for a moment, feeling the crackling and familiar spark within himself and his mind whenever Marijuana was near - the feeling spread from his mind, into his arms, through his fingers and through his music, infusing his acoustic strumming of Voodoo Child with a smokey, sultry air. The song eventually would slip and slide into Are You Experienced, and the lyrics would catch in his throat, spill into his dialogue in broken fragments.
And he spoke through his near incoherent humming of lyrics, "Hey, hey man." Trumpets and violins I can-uh, hear in the distance. I think they're callin' our name. And his words were carried on by the tunes his fingers played. "Maybe now you can't hear them, but you will, ha-ha, if you just take hold of my hand..." Whether he was directing the lyrics at the drunken Marijuana or not did not matter - it was more likely that Classic's thoughts were solely composed of lyrics, everyday, all the time, but on days like today it became more difficult to pull the words that existed beyond Song out of the phantasmagorical and beautiful realm of music within his mind.