The guitar sits in the corner of the room. Waiting. Collecting dust as the days go by. Patiently waiting to be picked up once again by the callous, comfortable, familiar hands it remembers. Strings aching to be plucked. Chords asking to be strummed. Yet, the hands do not play. My inspiration fleeing. My muse flickering out as the last chord played, echoes throughout the hollow wooden body of the guitar. The bones in these hands are weakening. Yet, the guitar waits. Patiently.