He was so thin, the kind of thin that comes from living a reckless life with no heed for taking care of oneself. A life of immediate gratification without any fear or thought of the consequences that come with tomorrow. Wrists and arms that seem to fade to nothing, shoulders that jut out and ribs that slightly show beneath plain t-shirts that no one else could possibly wear - no, own - like that.
And yet still, he slings that guitar around like it weighs nothing with an energy that burns you out the moment you take a breath. So you know that the minute he steps off that bare-yet-hallowed stage, he'll collapse and awaken sometime next tuesday.
But that's not a bad thing, because it means that he throws everything he has at this, at music. Doesn't that make you smile? Make you believe that there are people in this world who care, who believe in their dreams and who have something, anything to live for.
He runs and staggers and dances and sways and god, doesn't everyone look at him like he's some kind of deity? Oh, but isn't that exactly what he is? On this stage, in this crowded noisy, burning live house, with eyes in the crowd blazing with a desire that can't be named, he's basked in a glow that gods crave.
So maybe he's just human any place else, with problems and obstacles and things that just don't work. But not here.
In years to come, I will remember him as the reason I play the guitar, draw eyeliner too thick and paint my bass a purple from my dreams. I will remember him for the way I care about everything and believe in my dreams and how I, small and insignificant as I am, have something to live for.