It leans against when it's not lying on its back staring up at the chaos of not-being. It doesn't understand the posture of action, and straight-forward it will never be. It cannot act on its own, it is a symbiote. A few can hear its cries, some who are more attuned to its language. To them it is a siren's cry, and their hands begin to twitch as their brain begins to fever.
Such a mournful call, from only the room's-breadth away. When you hear it it's impossible to resist forever; short of tying yourself to a mast and gagging yourself, it will be engaged. Namely to you. You find yourself wandering over to its unassuming position, and you seek to make it proper. It cradles in your lap, your chest the top that seals the conduit as your arms come at it. Over and under they jack-in to their designated ports.
And it plays
Tears form in the corners of each note
Swells of pain ride waves of resonance
The unfulfillable loneliness is lessened for a time
While my guitar gently weeps, I weep in loneliness in kind.水
a g u i t a r b e c o m e s
m e b e c o m i n g i t
a n d d i s t i n c t i o n f a d e s
t o n o t h i n g , m u s i c a l l y b a c k l i t