There has never been a day I haven't thought about my guitar. It lies in the corner next to the bathroom door. I always see it lying there on my way to bathroom. Only attention it normally gets is when our cleaning lady finds it necessary to clear the dust accumulated under it. Today on the way I stopped by and picked it up, dusted the junk accumulated on the cover over the years, opened it to find my guitar broken. Later on a phone call while I was narrating the incident to a friend I found it hard to express. Not that it was emotional. I didn't know which part of it was broken. Though I was familiar with the general anatomy how it look and all that I had no clue what any of those parts were called. The one we are talking about, I later learned, is called a table. Now thinking back, considering my knowledge and interest, I wonder how I ended up buying a guitar. It was on the spur of the moment I assume. But certainly it has a lot to do wit
and a perpetual wanderer