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It may strike you as a bit daft or a tad morbid. But there's one place I can go where a trace of my son lingers still. When I play his old six string acoustic guitar, a few minutes on that fretboard leaves a distinct smell on my fingers; D'addario silk and steel, mingled with me and a slightly stronger human scent that is not me; still there, amazingly, from hours of play up in his bedroom, out under the stars, or in my old office at NTBI.

Hey, Wivs.

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