A Spanish Flamenco guitar awoke in an empty church on the outskirts of Fairbanks, Alaska. It blinked its eyes, examined the cascade of worn, wooden benches with care (noting how the teal nearly streaked into blue and back again), and coughed a pair of doves into the rafters. Perhaps it should tell the rest of the band it was finally awake. Was the guitar in a band? It made sense to assume that it was, though there was a degree to which it did not matter either: the guitar was awake, and it wanted to go about the rest of its day.

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