The place is smoulderingly grey. Rain falls in little tuffets like unanticipated tapdancers. There is no one around for miles but a man. His build is muscular. His mob of hazel hair is unkempt and frazzled. His hand reaches out. For who? Me? I am a shadow. All that remains of me is my tears, falling to the ground, mingling with the rain.
"The guitar!" He shouts, his voice drowned out by the monotonous sounds of the rain. "Save the guitar." His voice is a mere whisper. He wants the guitar. He wants that instead of me.
Then someone wails; a child.
I wake up, shocked. I'm sweating. A lot. The dream is nothing more than an illusive reality. To musicians, the strings of music are always more important than the strings of relationships, aren't they?
The one promise I've made to myself is to be the opposite of a musician.