The moon was full, or at least it looked like it was, and the sky was bright, a few stars shining past the suburban lights. He sat outside in his backyard on an old, faded orange stool, his dusty guitar resting on his knee and his fingers caressing the strings. The tips of his fingers ached dully as he pressed them on the steel strings, now warm with the heat that escaped from his hands.
He played slowly, rhythmically, a sad tune that resonated within the individuals of his audience, the lawnmower and his old broken bike. Gazing up at the clouds in the sky, he felt their depth and grandeur as the moonlight shone past, through, and around the clouds, revealing their large cumulus curves.
Opening his mouth as he strummed the vibrating strings, his voice seized and he couldn't speak, couldn't think. The strumming stopped, as did the soft tune he played. He struck the strings in anger creating cacophonous sound which hung in the air and decayed slowly into a faint memory of a hum. Maybe he was in over his head, maybe it just wasn't the right time yet. He slowly got up and realized how numb his legs were from sitting on the stool for so long. Carefully, he put away his guitar and locked its case, thinking about when he'd open it again. Maybe another day. Maybe never.
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