The guitar breathed. It inhaled and exhaled, and music filled the shop as the instrument picked the heartbreak of generations.

These babies ain’t just guitars; these babies are living, breathing instruments.

When you scratch these guitars, they bleed.

A real musician ain’t gonna choose his own guitar like an evil master choosing his slave. The guitar will choose his master and when he does, you’ll know it.

The guitar poured out its soul, its history, its dreams, its pain, its victories, its secrets. The guitar’s strings purred with blues and ended with a haunting solitary song with no lyrics.