the first time he touched a guitar was at a songwriters' convention, and it was the last time he shed silent tears in his room late at night. empty promises were broken chords and lies were the words that didn't fit the rhyme.

he spilled all of his sadness and emotions into his songs and made beautiful magic. to him, music became the air that filled his lungs and the paper cups that caught his tears.

he didn't make music with his hands or his voice or his instrument. he made music with his heart and soul, and it filled the void that love left behind.

he found solace in the tunes that only he could hear, as he played with the phantom band. his audience were the lost souls and fallen stars; quiet heartbreak and deafening loss.

he became a songwriter; he was the maker of his own music.