Hands had finished his set and was taking a break. He worked for tips, but the opportunity to play for people, made his life feel complete. He didn't really need the money, though he didn't make it known. He just wanted to be a "regular guy," respected for what he brought to the table. A wave of melancholy swept through him, a tinge of emotion in his gut. What it was he didn't know, but...maybe. He shoved it aside, burying "it" as he had so many times before. Now, he was sitting by himself at a small table in a corner. His guitar accompanied him there, his only companion just now. which he played soft and low, humming to himself an old tune. Those were the best, in his opinion. The song, if one strained to hear, would be almost inaudible and indistinguishable.