Gemotions

He leaned against the brick wall, arms folded, as the busker on the corner played his song, "City Lights." The man was younger, thinner, and far less practiced. He watched as people tossed coins into the open guitar case. A thin smile played on the busker’s lips.

A surge of irritation coursed through him. This was *his* song, written during nights spent staring at those city lights. The busker’s rendition was shallow, devoid of the longing and the ache that fueled the original. He shifted his weight, and then spat onto the pavement.

He'd get his own guitar out and play here. He'd show them how it was really done. He'd remind them what they’d been missing.