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It Started With A Whisper Video:
I feel like I'm in a prison cell. Iron bars cover the door and windows. There's a putrid, moldy scent, like dirty socks and a boy's sweaty locker room. The overweight, hairy Sasquatch working behind the counter looks like the type my mother warned me about. Yet here I am, standing inside Donny's Pawn Shop, handing over my precious guitar Dad gifted me years ago.
Part of me wants to snatch it back from him. Tell him I'm not selling it after all. Getting rid of it this way feels wrong somehow, like I'm cutting ties with a former part of myself. Still, I don't think I can ever allow myself to play it again. Not now anyway.
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