I look out the window of my flat and see in the parking lot a time capsule to a forgotten era. It may be
battered and bruised, but it’s full of well-worn memories. I think to myself as I stare at it, how many
late-night drives has it been on? Was it the only other witness to someone’s first kiss, or did it perhaps
help comfort someone as they went on a late night drive fighting back the tears from a heartbreak. I
stare at the time capsule, an old Honda, and wonder I too will add memories to it.
As I stare through the frozen window pane, I take a sip from my morning coffee. The dark liquid flows
into my mouth and warms me like a blanket in front of a roaring fire. The ritual also sends a spark on
that cold dreary morning and ignites that gray day into one full of new opportunities. I chuckle as I turn
from the window and walk into the bedroom.
In the bedroom, lies a thing of extreme beauty. Her slender neck, tattooed full of thorned roses, flows
into her small, yet powerful body. While she may allow many men to hold and caress her, few can take
up the guitar, bring her to life, and allow her to sing in her full glory.
As I look at the guitar, my phone goes off with that piercing ding that tries to break me from my
morning revelry into the cold, harsh, soulless world of the internet. I stare at the notification with
disgust and contempt, before turning my phone off and returning to my coffee, my guitar, and the world
that my phone was trying to take me from.
In Durham.