Playing D until you fall asleep

I think I said, out of frustration for my big, uncollected hands, that I needed a guitar of my own. I don't think I really meant that a new guitar would solve my chord changes or fingerings; I think what I wanted to say was, "Give me new hands to understand. Make these nerves more responsive. Give me a brain with the ability to focus on something mechanical and cohesive, instead of the abstract abyss of soda bubbles and taffy dust." I meant to say all of that, but I just said to the front window, "I think I need a guitar of my own." Your indignation always sounds like the tide coming in. You're impossible to ignore in your automobile engine moments.

"I had that guy for a long time. It served me just fine." I sort of looked over into the dining room and said, "Yeah, but... one of the strings is broken. And I guess I mean I need something that fits me a little better." You let out a noise that was non-noncommittally concomitant. Was it a moan?

I stared hard at the gap-toothed body in my arms. Like a child. I need one of my own, I thought. I need one of my own to sing out high, to sing out of tune, to sing a calliope shine in middle august tones. I need one of my own to bang around, to open and close like screen doors and flour jars. I need one of my own to grow in the garden, to dust the deep earth smells off of, to eat on like a table. I need my own, to be as worn out and fitted to my hands as this one is for you. No need to be indignant; we'll sweep the floors together softly, softly, sweet melodies in dusk.