He fell asleep with his back on the floor. The guitar resting on his chest didn’t hinder his breathing. It was comfortable uncomfortability. The song that had left his dreams and traveled to his hands was now nothing. The riff had died, even though it had to have been imagined by someone long before. This was the nature of music... the true nature of art. Like sand sculptures, like disappearing ink; like the first sex. It was a snowflake—a campfire. Pure distinctiveness was what the mythology of rock and roll wanted. If a voice wasn’t new; if the guitarist didn’t have a style to his own; if there wasn’t a hint of destructiveness, the history and fame didn’t want you. The universal force must flow through without your knowledge. Once you see it, the power is gone.
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