He strummed the guitar, listened, zoned out, turned the ears off, let em back on again, soaked it in, it sounded off, it sounded right in its wrongness, it larked, it crapped the bed, it sat up and vomited, it worked and it cried and it laughed while it stared poison daggers through a bitch’s lost soul while she baked a cyanide cake for the Venezuela national boys’ choir. If all this could be achieved in a song, well, then he might have something for the label. If not, he might as well dive off that 15th story lookout and splatter onto the driveway in front of Miss Mabel’s downstairs corner unit, the azaleas getting bone and brain and blood and hair and muss all over em. The newsmen would come, cuz he’d have that sign around his neck reading will work for food, and then they’ll look in his apartment and it will be full of a wide variety of food items that he will have left perfectly arrayed all over the place, and thus his end would be stuffed with irony, of a type not to many people had contemplated or ever thus tried to understand. And they might yearn to comprehend and the joke would be that it was all meaningless, that he was just fucking with them. Then he found the note and all that morbidity went out of his head like a swan gliding over a 20 foot waterfall, except gently, and he teared up with false joy and went to grab another beer. It was icy cold and gentle on his throat. He thought about smashing it, but thought better and finished drinking it instead, in 4 hard gulps, and then thought maybe it would be best to sleep for a little while, but first he’d better write down a few thoughts and that chord as well, for future reference.