Day 3

The current of her voice swept me away into strange lands as I closed my eyes, finger-picking a rich new progression on my East-Indian rosewood-lined guitar. I breathed in dank, earthy fragrances of myrrh and sandalwood, tasting the sweet sounds on my tongue. I played, listened, played more, losing sense of my fingers pulling on metal strings, losing sense of where I stood silent, no longer in the fading light of a Pacific Northwest dusk, but far away, in a foreign land of dusty streets and raucous peddlers, flooded with memories I've not yet experienced, saturated in a downpour of fluid notes through soft metal, imbibing all that I could as the sun set over the western horizon.