The Guitarist Next Door

My dear, earnest, soulful, crooning neighbor has songs to sing, and notes to play on his guitar.  The music burns within him, and he has no choice but the release the notes, to free them into the autumn air  of his youth.  And it’s possible that he really has no choice but to play al fresco, because his many roommates have probably requested that he not play in the house.  Because he is very bad.  Earnest, and bad.  And I think, because of his sensitive soul, he is dedicated to improvement at times where he won’t bother his roommates.  Times such as 12:30 am, or 2:30 pm.  You know, times when people are sleeping, or not at home.  But guess what, guy?  I am always home.

Yep, I may need to think about leaving the house more, especially since the death metal band across the street started practicing elsewhere, and are no longer drowning out Mr. Sensitive Guitar Playing Guy.

At least when he wakes me in the night, he seems to stop playing after I flash the lights off and on a bunch.  And I have to assume that someday these 70 degree days will fade and it will too cold for plucking the old catgut in the yard.

Until then, there is a soundtrack to my days.

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2 thoughts on “The Guitarist Next Door

  1. soboclassifieds

    I am picturing you getting up in your skimpiest nightie and appearing in his backyard – swaying to the tunes. Like a midnight woodland nymph…

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