In the Angles

It hasn’t always been like this.  Ronan remembers the good ol’ days, before the record deal even.  The wandering.

There had been nothing to stop him from going everywhere, from busking on the streets of Florence or Prague, from playing bars in Bangkok and Dehli and Moscow.  The sound was still raw, an organic thing; Ronan found it in the angles made by beer bottles and oily smoke.

He’d play, making the guitar sing with two voices, three.  The rage around him would focus, then diffuse.  People sang along to songs they didn’t know.

He wonders now what went wrong.


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