My arms and neck are stiff from holding this guitar. The only slight movement conspicuous is my breath barely gasping and my blistered fingertips falling across the thick chords.

My music- it comes out in a whisper, though rings loud in my ancient ears. It is my breath. Perhaps that is all.


When people stop and grimace- their eyes heavy with pity- I wiggle my toes a little, so they know I am there. Children yell, "Picasso, Picasso!" but were quickly hushed- passerby's knowing I had nothing left to give.



This was perpetual. My eyes sagged from immutable repetition.





Until this melancholy man, almost as sad as I was, looked upon me with the keenest interest. There was no pity in his eyes- nothing but accepting intrique.






A smile pulled at his lips-encouraging me. His neck cocked to the same side as mine, as if reminiscing in the past. Perhaps, I was looking upon the face of my future.






My neck twitched with curiosity- not powerful enough to move. I wondered when he'd soon realize what he was looking at was nothing but blue.








With eyes cast downward, I felt brush strokes against a rough canvas. My arm fell numb of music.

My sight was no longer an ability of mine, but an instinct. It came along with hearing- feeling.







And so I listened, and felt those strokes against the peppered stubble scattered across my jaw. With every last brush against the canvas, I heard it: he was painting me- in the hour of my death.






Picasso was scribbled in the corner.