He pushed the ring on to his finger and slid it up and down the strings of his guitar; making music in the underground apartment. The songs were jaundiced as they took shape, crawling from the sound hole on thin, weak legs to collapse and lie on the floor—piling on top of one another and suffocating—each emerging derelict finishing off the last with a huff and a flop and a sigh. The ring met the guitar strings with recognition, the four bottom of which were wound wire, and they danced to the sound of their music dying; a serrating grind up and down the fretboard.
Nathan Stretch
www.myspace.com/basslions
The Wind Up Bird Chronicle
Haruki Murakami
Nathan Stretch
www.myspace.com/basslions
The Wind Up Bird Chronicle
Haruki Murakami