They are trying it out one more time. Too old to care, they finally got good enough jobs to afford good instruments, though never put in the time to play them. Johnny got a good job working at the post office, he was making money before any of them. He had a nice guitar, nice amp, a girlfriend, two kids, and a full time job. Steve, went to school, grad school, and finally got a job putting computers together making more money than he would have had he stayed in his given field. He was dating a freelance photographer who lived with her parents and ate only vegetables and tea.
Chris played piano at his grandmother's house. She would ask him to to play Bach chorals and anything in the old Cokesbury hymnal. She had outlined which pieces were Bach, which were traditional, etc. She could play most of them, he could play them all with some work.

A great red spot of a dream awoke Johnny from the deeper parts of sleep. The parts where your not working, tending to your yard, or fixing your car. The part where a black blanket folds over folds into your deep inner consciousness, allowing final rest from the day. But this red spot brought him right back into full lucid dreams. Dreams of a future city, with cars that burn invisible fuels, and criss cross back and forth through the day glow red sky. Standing on a platform over looking a city, miles and miles in the sky. He was some kind of mayor, or senator of this future world. Dressed in ropes and a hat much like that of the pope. In his right hand was a green scepter. He brought it down hard onto the head of someone sitting next to him. Not sitting, kneeling.
Blood ran thick unto the platform, covering his robe, making it heavy. He tried to run, but his robes were dragging him down. He got down on his knees, dragging his knuckles hopelessly across the ground, trying in vain to move away from the fallen. Cars whirled ahead making their believable "lululu," noises that you have heard from thousands of movies about the future. John believed this was real. He also knew it was a dream. Wanted it to be a dream. I can do this, i can make it out of here, he thought. Better than growing old, better than shoveling letters into slots, paying bills, raising a family. This is better than driving to Disney world every other year. I would rather do this than play guitar for my wine bottle, growing old, listening to the records of my youth, and fitting, still, with work, into my old shirts. The ones I should throw away. The shirts that not longer hold the same meaning as the photographs that display them. Shirts held by strings, shopped in vintage stores, placed on mantles, sold like paintings. Sold like paintings that no one wants.

He woke to the birds singing outside his window. It was time to get up. but it was Sunday, and he could read his paper, drink his coffee, and play his guitar.