Elvis Presley sits on the porch in Graceland, the evening cold setting in on the countryside property. His hair had come loose from its gelled state, and a couple rebellious strands of hair fell into his eyes. His long, nimble fingers strum his acoustic guitar, and he hums softly. Elvis’ voice, freed from the bounds of performing in front of others, is rich and sweet. Crickets accompany his melody, their song a comfort of the South. Face lit by the moon, Elvis’ eyelashes cast long, spider-web shadows over his cheeks as his eyes drift to a faraway land.