To sit quietly, hands on knees, fiddling with holes in blue jeans, growing a beard, waiting for the dusk to settle, with fading light and night beckoning strangers who may happen by, wondering and pondering and thinking without asking out loud, until it becomes obvious why the scene is so silent; no creaking bones or crooning moans, rocking chairs are great for waiting and contemplating but no good for players because the arms get in the way of arms and hands on guitars; so he left...
