The Boy.

That boy, who?

Under the sun. Smoking the dying stubs of a cigarette. With aviators on. Striped shirts and loose linen pants. An air of calm bestowed upon his countenence. A composure derived from complacence. Of control over past clouds and future torrents. An effervenscence in his smile. Sly, as it were. It caught the passing glimpses passed at him. Beckoned them.

He walked down the yellow street. With dangling strings of his guitar. His hat twisted. His hair awry. His pace lazy. Coins jingling in his pocket as walked. Entered the blue walled town. Rustic in its appearance. Welcoming however. He walked down further. Passed vendors selling tribal beads. Passed artists painting the landscape of a drowing Sun. Passed the canal.

Reached the obscure little settlement. Brown tents laid with mud. Canopies of bougainvilleas weighing down at every nook. And met the little boy. Scrouging for coins in a torn pouch his mother gave. Called him a name, and brought him aside. Asked him what would he buy with those coins. Nothing, said the boy. I'll make music with it. Music, he thought to himself. Patted him and asked him to fetch him some ale. When the boy returned, he found none. But the guitar, and a few more coins. And a note that he could not decipher.

It read, 'Never doth the coin depart from thee. In you it foundeth solace. In you the ultimate of music.'