This Friday your four lines of prose shall be about: the musician.
Have a great weekend!
He sits on the porch, cigarette smoke escaping his mouth with every word he sings. He strums the guitar and taps his bare feet on the worn wooden planks while he recharges his lungs with another long pull on his dangling cigarette. There is no one around to listen but he plays on anyway, for himself and the ants in the yard and the birds in the trees.
He plays for the ghost of one who has forgotten him but will never escape his thoughts.