It was just a little sound, or at least, that's how it started. Kind of a systematic sound. All ways marching in time with a melodramatic power ballad somewhere. But it really started to drive him nuts. It had a slight ringing to it, which made the experience all the more like a band aid pulled off slowly. But at the same time, he was a busy guy. Had lot's on his plate.
So he just kind of coped with/ignored it for three years, during witch time he hit it big. He was it, man. Everyone was listening to his junk. Darn near seemed to be all that was on the radio, and he'd never had so many cars in his life. Whoda thought? Just one song. But after a year of this, well, affections started to fade. People wanted another album.
That's where the sound became so critical. He just couldn't get it out of his mind. It was like the old guy, you know the type, who stands up at dinner parties to make a speech, just wouldn't stop clinking his glass with his fork. Only worse still, it was a slo-mo kind of sound. Infuriating.
He went into the studio, full of trepidation. He was becoming so worked up, his manager thought he was on drugs. But it was no good. Two weeks passed and he didn't even have the start of a song. Everyone was getting worried. But he couldn't be helped. He knew it all meant something. Had to. Old guys don't clink glasses without something to say, and he felt sure this speech wasn't gonna be the kind everyone falls asleep to.
Years past. He was so over, no one even remembered his name. His label had dumped him, he had no friends. His only relative, a very, very advanced in years aunt, put him in a state paid mental home. He just wasted away, there was no helping him.
It was in his 73rd year, that things changed. He was dieing, partly of poor health and partly of a complete lack of desire to live. Tucked deep in his bed, he yawned, exhausted, and prayed the end would come soon. He couldn't even remember exactly why he was so unhappy. Then, scaring the nurse quite out of her wits, he leaped out of bed and ran into his old room.
He grabbed up his guitar, he hadn't touched it in over fifty years, and it was badly out of tune, and started frantically strumming. The nurse, this was her first day, so you can't really blame her, ran away, wailing for the doctor. She got him and they burst into his room to see a real spectacle.
There sat he sat on his bed, gown half falling off, beaming. He was strumming away at his guitar and curled in his toes was a key, with which he was tapping on a glass vase. He started to sing. This noise, this 'song' to be liberal with the word, while horribly out of tune and just down right weird, somehow really grabbed the doctors interest. He and the nurse watched with an increasing sense of wonder.
The beat... it was perfect. Flawless. The old man then died, quite happy and free. The doctor went home that night, happily tapping that song on his steering wheel, feeling quite lofty and artistic. Everything felt new. But as time passed, he forgot where it came from or when he first heard it. He began to be increasingly distracted. He complained a lot about something on his mind, a haunting beat.
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