The long, wooden piece, the guitar. The sleek but worn curves worn down by gripping hands, and strings tired but still strong. The thrumming, the hollow, yet still full sound—full of rich, humming wind flying in and then out to churn the air into chocolate.

The man is young. His case is not rare.

He sits in that small place underground, the axis to his own small world—his world, the small axis to the big and intimidating world. Day after day, night after night, he sits against that wall, strumming his guitar, the calloused fingers fluttering and fluttering over the strings.

Strum and thrum.

Holding the familiar guitar he cannot take for granted, he plays and plays and plays for a small but filling meal—and perhaps a future he cannot see.

Day in, day out.

The sun flies across the sky. The moon soars to another side.

Days and nights and in between, he sits in that part of the world, his fingers flying until he cannot appreciate the beautiful voice he controls.

Yet it is the beautiful voice that he cannot take for granted, along with its singer, and he the player.

Stricken in poverty, watching the world go by as he collects the coins that will lay out his future. Holding and caressing the guitar with tender art, like a lover.

It is just him and the guitar, playing and playing into the night until he can one day leave his small, small world.