The strumming of the guitar, warm and engaging despite the odd story notes and their discordance, adds a touch of exhilirating excitement to the night.
H. is on the floor, in black jeans and stripped shirt, looking surprisingly fresh after a day of door-knocking doing surveys. Foot tapping, hands moving skilfully across the frets, hovering and pressing, he is he life force behind the guitar.
N. sits on the swivel chair, singing in a strong, warm and somewhat husky voice. Grey contact lenses, half of fringe dyed blond dangling on the forehead, in trendy singlet, metal chain wrapped twice around the neck, he waves his hands as he speaks, voice rises and falls with the sometimes stretched-out vowels, he looks every bit the modern metrosexual...
Memories, memories. Crimson sky and pink twilight.
Photos... Precious moments captured or a sheer curse of not being able to forget? O life. Reality and illusions and disillusions- my state of mind constantly somersaults between them.