There lives an experienced, aged Buck. An artist, a poet, a last of his kind lost to his mind. A calling of rest soon enveloping leads to trepidations of unfulfillment and mediocre routines. Between tangles of a finished bottle and a cigarette burning is the disdain to the modern world, a façade of wonder hiding sinister consumption of trends and unthoughtful materials. As nothing can be traced to the source of such misery for the contemporary mainstream, he begins to fall further into a despair. There is not much consideration of public opinion but rather an understanding of what he is, the connections, leads and cogs that are built up of his being.

Between pages strewn with letters of pessimism and hardships for the common man lay the yearning desires to be known, understood. 

Copper wires laid stretched across the vessels of storytelling. Their necks are held on pedestals between four walls and the occupant sat on his sun bleached chest. There is where he sways to a tune which only he can hear, a rhythmic accompaniment from ice of the fourth poured glass of whiskey becomes his replaced bandmate. 

His gaze followed the visual path of the retired studio now soaked in sombre hues of gold, a warmth produced by the fading sun. Dust had collected atop of select few keys of the piano, an ode to living in the past, presently. Decades of stage lights and adoring audiences. Decades of living bare and naked, answering mundane questions. Negligent attitudes toward his very personal reflections, not one properly heard what they adored listening to.

His right hoof follows to the rhythm of the song as it sagged slightly across the top of the other leg. His wrinkled, sinewy finger soon followed with a twirl on each beat to the tempo. A staggered introduction of a bodily orchestra, becoming of a faint memory from decades past—stood in front of rich weeping of applause, but all he could remember was how cold the stage lights felt caressing his skin.

Aroused was the harsh and worn gravelly timbre of a larynx abused by a lifetime of cigarette smoke and one too many arguments. Notes emerged slowly from within his retired body, following along harmonies that have become soundtrack to a lifelong career, his eyes slowly rolled backwards as he tiredly rocked back and forth.

Rejection had become a core characteristic built into him. The pushing of an agenda instilled by men now laid to waste as well as the pushing of unattainable ideologies, heaven sent. Ultimately, self-righteousness becomes a downfall, to watch the only one you love walk away.

His broken tone, his aching voice so raw, one that had soothed and lulled began to crack ever so slightly. His body urged itself to stand, now wobbled from years of alcoholic overindulgence. Beginning to stabilise would he find his feet moving in patterns that would never fade from him, ingrained deep inside are intricacies only shared by a loving soul and moments. Deep, dark, shameful moments.

He had started to twirl around slowly to the tune, carefully stepped among cables of instrument equipment and stools. A familiar warmth encompassed his body, hugging tightly as he continued to sway and dance himself to an ecstatic pleasure. His body became guided to the soothing flow of the tune, hands tenderly gliding the area of his back, feet shuffling together in the trance. A forth bringing shroud of sadness blew through him, striking deep to his core for he knew looking at the man holding him would disappear.

“You live unaware how much you’ve faded, waiting for them to wither.” the other man’s voice penetrated through the tune resided in the man’s head.

“They choose to live blinded, deaf. They will begin to realise that, in due time.”

“Stubbornness had been your downfall.” the other man’s voice chuckled, the swaying stopped. A breath was drawn.

…

“Martyr me, for this isn’t life.” 

He had begged, a plea to move on but alas, once  his eyes had opened the projection had disappeared.