The eighth and final visitor of our bar is not a part of the story in a direct sense, yet he’s the one who told it to us. He’s the musician for the night, he’s here to sing a song or two, go through a pack of strings tearing every single one, and drink a lot of booze. Maybe he wasn’t there to take part in the stories of our lives, but it’s with his voice that we all speak, and it’s his tired hands that make the guitar scream, cry, and roar at our misfortunes, lost hopes, and wasted days.
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