for passion is fire made flesh

I brush my fingers across the smooth, polished surface. Grasping it by the neck, I position it in my arms. My fingers press down on the fretboard. Floating words ignite innumerable ideas in my mind; my pick begins its dance over the strings. I have no sense of time; there is only the music, and there is me. When I wake from my trance, the world is silent as the night. And, I belatedly realize, I have just composed my very first song.