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As he read, a melody began to crawl out from the white space between the words. He picked up his battered acoustic guitar. He didn't try to "fix" the lyrics. He just let them breathe, singing the typos and the half-finished thoughts exactly as they were.

Verse 1: Concrete lungs / breathing in the neon / foot on the gas / get on the road Chorus: (Needs to feel like a Greek tragedy—heavy, but fast) Bridge Idea: What if the guitar sounds like it’s weeping?

He double-clicked. The window snapped open, revealing a chaotic sprawl: