PLOT

So here's where it stood: Knife had fallen into bad times when he lost his job, sold all he had to get the black market drug-food he needed to survive, and was down to the two things he had left to sell.

The typewriter could enable him to write something, a poem, a story, a novel, that maybe he could publish and make some financial gain.

The guitar could see him on the streets singing for small change, but again, maybe keep him in the drug-food they all needed to live.

The rent is due, his drug supplier's on his back for money, and he's feeling the weight of his ancestors press the air out of his lungs.