Post by Cale Rosiér on Nov 14, 2007 8:56:34 GMT 1
Cale sat down at his desk after class and began to put a project into motion that had been on his mind for a long time. He took out his ruler, for straight lines, and with a simple mechanical pencil he drew three words in big, thick letters.
MUSICIANS INQUIRE WITHIN
He had gotten away from formal music groups in school, like concert bands or choruses, but continued to write songs from time to time for just him and his guitar. Still, he was just looking for other people who liked to hit a beat here and again. His hobbies were getting old: He wrestled, he did his homework, he noodled on the axe by himself, and he had a few awkward conversations here and there with people he tentatively called "friends". He was looking to expand on his musical interests and hoped someone would have something to contribute, even if it was just a damn bongo or something.
He was prepared for his poster to be defaced or for people to talk jive to him for one reason or another. He started in playing a few chords and yanked his red notebook out of his backpack to find the lyrics he was writing earlier that week. Maybe he would spend the night alone again, maybe he was playing the waiting game for no reason, but maybe someone would actually take notice and have a real interest. At very least, he hoped someone would hassle him a little so he could run them down. Rosiér was always looking to expand his "Don't screw around with me" reputation.
MUSICIANS INQUIRE WITHIN
He had gotten away from formal music groups in school, like concert bands or choruses, but continued to write songs from time to time for just him and his guitar. Still, he was just looking for other people who liked to hit a beat here and again. His hobbies were getting old: He wrestled, he did his homework, he noodled on the axe by himself, and he had a few awkward conversations here and there with people he tentatively called "friends". He was looking to expand on his musical interests and hoped someone would have something to contribute, even if it was just a damn bongo or something.
He was prepared for his poster to be defaced or for people to talk jive to him for one reason or another. He started in playing a few chords and yanked his red notebook out of his backpack to find the lyrics he was writing earlier that week. Maybe he would spend the night alone again, maybe he was playing the waiting game for no reason, but maybe someone would actually take notice and have a real interest. At very least, he hoped someone would hassle him a little so he could run them down. Rosiér was always looking to expand his "Don't screw around with me" reputation.