His house is a guitar. The sound echoes from his ceiling of a deck, as we tuned our strings to the same key. The two of them equaled more than six strings, voices lined beyond frets, emotions and energy beyond lyrics and melody. Chemistry is created in the only spiral sweet harmony shapes. The body was hugged in arms of two humble souls of amazingly, unwitting talent.
“I guess no one knows how to build a guitar anymore.
“But to be honest, we’re just a bunch of people. We’re all doing the same thing.”
That’s what we are, three people in a house built contradictory to his first sentence. He was proven wrong by how his house accepted the acoustical chemistry inspired.
The more we admit we don’t know, the more we are acquainted with the sound-hole of honesty. The more we admit, the less time we waste pretending.
Twigs and steel he transforms into musical instruments, but those instruments are turned into music like a kind of gold you can hold in your ears as your hands toss it at each other from where you sit, on a couch, within a guitar of a house.
Their two necks were one two neck, priceless in composition uncarveable.
“Take the planet earth, and build a guitar. We all feed each other. Without the world, we’re all fucked.”
It is a symbiotic relationship that grows, the earth into trees, the trees into guitars, guitars inside of houses of guitars. This is how you get beyond menial daily grunts. Reach into your ribcage, past your heart, to your soul where the honesty of music resides.

-by Veronica Martin