Kid Named Alban

I teach guitar to this kid named Alban in a little room on Tuesdays. His mum’s pretty strict and if he accidentally strikes a dead string in my lessons, he cries. The string smacks, burbles metallic, fades and fumbles like the bristles on the face of a mouse. I tell him it doesn’t matter and that all beautiful things must have their turn at dying. But the dumb kid won’t listen. He winds himself up.

This coming Tuesday, we intend to write a song that will make you miss something you never had. It’ll hurt like hell, teaching him to play those notes to me in that little room.