"Wait, What Key Is It In?"

I looked at my guitar. Its back was turned to me. I looked at its back. It’s leaning against a living room chair. Well, officially it’s a dining room chair but I have it in my living room. I don’t have a dining room. That’s okay because I found the chair on someone’s lawn with a sign that said free. I figured I was free to put it in any damn room I pleased. I don’t usually sit in the chair since I have a couch. The chair is for company but I don’t really have any, which is fortunate for my guitar since it needs a soft place to lean while I think about playing it day after day, night after night. It’s black so it shows the fingerprints. It doesn’t show eyeball prints though. And how ironic that it has its back turned towards me since it’s me who’s turned my back on it. And my back doesn’t show fingerprints. Or eyeball prints. Just moles. One time my doctor measured them. Then he asked if there was anyone that could keep track of their growth. I asked, ‘you mean besides you?’