The blue guitar And I are one.

The sea returns upon the men, The fields entrap the children, brick Is a weed and all the flies are caught, Wingless and withered, but living alive. The discor…

I know that timid breathing. Where Do I begin and end? And where, As I strum the thing, do I pick up That which momentously declares Itself not to be I and yet…

Slowly the ivy on the stones Becomes the stones. Women become The cities, children become the fields And men in waves become the sea.

'For me,' he explains his mammoth project, 'it is an obligation to know and learn to understand the various styles living within the guitar, to work with them …

To have ownership of something that powerful is something I'll never be able to get used to. It still knocks me out when I play it.

The very day I purchased it, I christened my guitar as my monophonic symphony, six string orchestra.