Perhaps this is just another one of those stories.

Afterall, it starts off like this.

Descriptions of a small corner cafe shop. The lights are dim here, in the general scope of the shop. The only source of light comes from yellow rays of the lamps hanging from the ceiling, all dangling near edges of the walls. Beneath the lights are many lovers of literature; newspapers filled with today's headlines, romance novels blossoming with tales of what seems a too unrealistic story, and of course, the occasional textbook bustled open but left untouched due to the presence of a smartphone. The weather is gloomy outside, with gray clouds ready to pour down all their regrets down onto the city streets that hold noisy traffic. But all that is overclouded from sounds within the shop itself. Bustling noises that surround a lax kind of atmosphere: the faucets and machines behind the counter turning on and off, casual conversation exchanges from various different customers, crisp pages turning, a phone buzzing in the corner, and the sound of a pick plucking away on strings. A guitar and its owner -- a stage and its performer.

It would be simple to write of the lyrics the performer sings right here, but that proves a little difficult.

Perhaps this story isn't much like those stories at all.