Don't play the guitar in the silence of the night for a wretched love. He does not scratch with his whining beating the soul of the one who listens by a logical disappointment. Each chord drowns a beat of a dead heart, of eternal loneliness, of vital emptiness, of disappointment. Each note emulates the destruction of faith in a pious future. Whining is the mystery of a soul that ceased to be to turn into the wind.
