The place cast a spell on me, a lovely spell that seduced me one one breath at a time.

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

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.

To lose the simple years of your life is to lose your soul. Some say don’t look back, but if there is love and laughter behind you, look homeward from time to time. Draw strength from your mistakes, your accomplishments, your losses, your awkward years, your unanswered prayers. Draw strength from the magnificent landscape of your youth.