Briefly pausing before tuning her guitar, San contemplated whether she'd get in trouble for doing what she was about to do. For one thing, she'd probably get another lecture, this one not really relevant to classes, about practically begging for money. Hey, she was offering a service, and had that knit cap flopped open with a few coins already settling at the bottom as a reminder that maybe she'd enjoy a some loose change thrown in there, or a fifty dollar bill--something was always nice. So, hence its lying there on top of her scratched, stickered, sun-bleached gray case.
She hummed a tune under her breath as she plucked the strings and turned the tune-y things at the end, as she referred to them as, to exact specifications. San was almost ready, and cleared her throat. But she didn't let any music waft through the air just yet. She reclined on the air for a little while, intaking the early evening atmosphere; the sun barely under the horizon, the courtyard lit with Christmas and garden lights, and she, sitting as just a mere addition among the giddy couples holding hands, and scholars rushing past with skyscrapers of notebooks and textbooks and, probably, giant classical novels for some light reading on top of that. Yes. This was college, indeed.
She relinquished her endulging of life at Demaitre U for some quality playing time, and began to sing:
"One less call to answer,
feeling full of despair,
don't think I can get through it,
just one last prayer..."