Who: Steven and Philip Where: Steven's Apartment When: Sunday, January 16, evening What: Just another meeting Status: Incomplete
Steven's fingers moved over his guitar strings, urging a tune from the worn instrument. It was an acoustic guitar, old but well-maintained. Steven never brought it on tour with him; it was his favorite, a gift from his grandfather shortly before cancer took him. Of all the people in his life, it was his grandfather who had encouraged him, who had never looked at him like a waste of space or disapproved of his personal habits. Steven used this guitar -- and this guitar only -- to write his music.
The song he was currently strumming was one from his third album. In its entirety, the song was more than just an acoustic guitar; it was a sentimental piece, accompanied by the soulful melodies of violins. In his mind, he could hear those violins, the same as he had when he had first begun work on the piece.
The melody drifted through the open door, spilling into the hallways of the building. Steven liked to keep the door open; to him, there was something unnatural about barricading yourself away in your apartment alone, keeping yourself apart from your neighbors and those around you.