the phone is off the hook

A man sits down across from me with a guitar and a broken voice and begins to play. A beautiful, clean melody, a paen on the sacrificial love of friendship. His voice is cracked, weathered and tarnished, each word a struggle, each note a stretch. Where was this song born? And what was it telling me? Because I for one was trying to sleep. All the while my subconcious had been composing this, scribbling notes in the deprivation of daylight. The song even rhymed. Rhymed! How did it do that? And now I was being serenaded with it. And as the guy finished, as he played the last few notes, my phone rang, and the real shattered the illusory. I lost it all.