I passed the guitarist on my way home. He was playing “Waves of Mutilation”. I was left with a brief, but not unfamiliar thought that I should speak to him.
This should be a story, but it is not. I didn’t stop. I went home. The guitarist, I’m told, is on his way to New Orleans where he probably will never reach. He was dying, according to the girl who drove him to the train yard. I’m told his name is Nate, and that he was on a weird, sad, beautiful journey.
This should have been a story. Instead, it’s a lesson. The crime of blinking.