Desolate Rooms and Enchanting Tunes

He sat in a desolate room made of plywood and dust mites. His tattered clothes lay gingerly beside him. He held his guitar in a manner that seemed to say, "if you drop me I'll break." Though his guitar had no strings, he sat eloquently; seemingly entranced in a melody that his fingers ever so gently traced along the neck of his old guitar. Stopping sporadically to recall a note or two. His hands losing momentum; beginning to tremble. He took deep labored breaths as though his lungs were to fail. His heart beat its last beat and his labored breaths came to a haul. In his last breathy exhale his hands fell to his side, never to trace the neck of that old guitar again.