" He chose a guitar from one of the oak cabinets. Picking it with his calloused fingers, he squeezed his eyes shut and hummed. Something miraculous poured from his soul, riding in on a lonely train, rising softly from a distant place— a place I’d never been— then louder and louder it came, traveling through my ears, pulsing through my veins. I’d never heard anything like it. When he finished playing, he sat with the guitar cradled in his arms, waiting, the music traveling through the forgotten city of my soul. "

― Brenda Sutton Rose