The Xbox cable brushes against the guitar strings.
They mutter a cautious chirp from behind the TV.
Frightened, the guitar blasts me with guilt and musical memories.
Dazed I stagger back. Hesitant.
A deep ache rises from a forgotten place. Sorcery!
That old stringed box works strong magic against my soul, begging to be heard again.
But alas, my will proves stronger.
I turn my back on the rusty siren to bow before the mighty rectangle.
May your art never die.