The vibration of strings from thickest to smallest. My callused fingertips trailing up and down the sturdy neck  and effortlessly but delicately pinning down the slender conceivers of my serene composure. The mellow tone emanating from my lungs and belting out in soft symphonies, flooding into ears of admirers present. The humming and drumming and collaborations of crossing tones send tingles down my spine as the melodies dance over my eardrums and teasingly tickle across my lips. I can't help but wonder how this sound is made. The answer lies someplace between lyrics and familiar harmony. How the numerous alterations of so many different feelings derive from ones warmed soul and are spoken. No, not spoken. Sung. How others absorb the words of your once sacred thoughts. My eyelashes flutter in contentment like the fragile wings of a Monarch. I imagine waves of music to be colors that won't register to our dumbfounded eyes; colors that do not have a name in this universe, so mesmerizing and worldly. I imagine music to be molasses: thick, sweet, slow, rich and pure. From organic swift beats and secret messages, clashing ideas of emotion turn into kaleidoscope colors. Undefined rhythms perishing to the last song. I am an answer, swaying old and low.