His rusty doorknob moaned as it peeked open,
The glare from his synthesizer irradiated through the small crack
Yet trekking into my companion’s habitat, my eyes wander down a path
As I examined:
The creamy-white ‘65 Fender Jaguar strapped to his back, idolized like a son to his father
His scattered Rolling Stone magazines, strewn, across his clearly visible unmade bed
His imitation Bob Dylan wayfarers, rested gently on his nostril, accompanying a mischievous smile
And mountains of flannels that he claimed made him appear “*******” and “hipster” at the same time
Obscure in a corner, his preferred foreign films organized in a stack
North of his bed… hundreds of pictures of Lennon and McCartney, signifying his shrine and slight obsession with the 1960’s
To the left, his personalized skateboards, festooned with mainstream company seals and psychedelic band logos
The framed polaroid of us sitting effortlessly on his bedside table
And directly 12 o’clock: his father’s turntable spinning early Lou Reed, beside his collection of dusty records I granted him..