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The signal on the phone seemed to falter occasionally and made the words Jake sung slightly crackled and not quite understandable. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t what he said that kept her attention; it was the sound- jagged, unpredictable and utterly compelling. She sat in the corner of the kitchen on a high wooden chair, phone gripped tightly in her hand. Unsure of the meaning attached to the words only the rising and falling of the melody. To the listener, it seemed his guitar held the power of a god; he could bring the lifeless note on the page into existence. The girl’s focus was entirely attached to the sound. She forgot about Jake, to her, only his music seemed to exist. He became his music. Jake played as he always did. As if he was the only one there. No audience, just the sound. It didn’t matter where he was or who he was with. This was his haven, his music was his release and when his fingers touched the strings everything around him dissolved. Mal Sing