he broke his old guitar. he couldn't make it sing. the strings had grown so worn they made his fingers bleed. soon after the event he made an acquaintance whose fingers bled as well, forming scabs that never heal. would you play a song for me? some wilting melody that drifts over the sunflowers to some far away country. won't you play a song for me? with words like push pins? they stick into my heart... and bleed out resonance these songs are all asleep. they lay dormant inside of me. this vacant recitation..i can't resuscitate them. won't you play a song for me? let the words escape your mouth! scream out what you've lost! in song it will be found. he broke his old guitar. he smashed it on his bedpost, where he used to dream up lovers kissing his forehead, "good morning."