Garrett started practicing at the age of thirteen. Every night he laid the guitar on the bedroom floor. It was his piece of chocolate before sleeping. Even though his dog, Sergei was dying, his mother refused to open its cage.

And so, he learned to ease the tension by turning the guitar's pegs. He caressed the neck, one fret at a time. Behind steel bars, Sergei howled one last time.

As Garrett reached the body, he gently spread the strings first before inserting his fingers into the sound hole. He watched himself do this before the mirror — one hand stroking the guitar's rib, the other reaching in. Tucked under the soundboard, Sergei echoed the little death that, to Garrett's touch, never stopped hungering for physical contact.