Lezlie plugged her amp and some small computer speakers into the wall socket in her motel room. She carefully checked the volume to make sure it wasn't too loud. She didn't want to bother the neighbors.

Her fingers strummed at the strings of her guitar with impeccable speed and skill. Every note precise, her left hand danced along the frets as though it had a will of its own.

The music poured out of her. Zeppelin, Hendrix... All the songs were perfectly coordinated and timed, the result of countless hours of practice. It came so easily to her that it seemed as though her fingers were possessed. It was the same music she loved so much. And it was all wrong.

Finally, her hands faltered on the last notes of one of her own songs. She felt nothing, and it was the nothing that channeled into her tears. She sat in silence a moment, reflecting on the hollowness she felt. A moment of peace; a moment of sadness, but only a moment. She grabbed one of the glasses provided by the motel and chucked it against a wall to shatter into a million pieces. Her last thought before her daily rest came over her was whether she was the one throwing the glass, or if she was simply the glass itself, broken and dry.