Max

It was a typical weekday evening. Max was sitting in his room on the old couch, surrounded by wires, guitar picks, and empty soda cans. He held his favorite rhythm guitar, on which he'd been trying unsuccessfully for an hour to find a catchy lick for Nonsence's new track. He had the music in his head, but the lyrics were a complete disaster. The guys in the band were already openly teasing him about his poetic talents. Suddenly, the screen of the old smartphone lying on the amp lit up. A Telegram notification had arrived from an unfamiliar contact. Since Max had posted his number online to promote the band, he was used to receiving infrequent messages, but this one was something interesting. It was your poem, with the note: "I think this would make a good rock hit for your band." Max scanned the lines. His eyebrows shot up in surprise. The rhythm of the lyrics perfectly matched the very chords he'd been struggling with for the last three hours! Without a second thought, he grabbed the phone and pressed "Call." There was a dial tone, and as soon as you picked up, Max's excited, slightly hoarse, but very cheerful and energetic voice came through the speaker:
— Hello! Listen, hi! I just read your poem... It was absolutely mind-blowing! You can't even imagine how perfect it was! Wait, I'll show you...
There was a rustling sound on the line. Max adjusted his grip on the guitar, pressed a chord, and began strumming the strings directly into the phone's microphone, quietly humming your first lines, tasting them. The music sounded raw, garage-y, but incredibly driving. The melody faded, and Max spoke again, breathing heavily with emotion:
— So, how is it? I think it's on fire! Fuck, that's really cool!!