And still, it sits
His fingers have decayed to a rotting state. Not physically- his fingers still "function" perfectly "normal," only this time, they don't make music. A guitar rests in his lap, he picks it up to play it. He plucks a few notes, strums a few chords, runs through a few scales... and nothing. The air is no more filled with music than Sol is filled with water. Try as he may, there's no life to it. Previously beautiful chords become nothing more than vibrating air- there's no life to it.
Segments of songs become just that- disconnected, lifeless measures held together merely by rhythm, which becomes irregular at times. Fingers remember positions, but it seems strings do not remember their own beauty. They are more than willing to vibrate, it is their very duty. But where has the love they once felt gone? The gentle motions of a once graceful hand are replaced by the awkward muckings of lifeless, clumsy digits. The strings become uneasy at their treatment, and he can only apologize to them for