The limo ride must have lasted an hour. We drank champagne, vodka and some minty shit that Christian didn’t like. Plus, we got real stoned from that joint.
I have not quite convinced myself that my work here is completely futile, nor do I believe that music has ground itself to a rut as I may have made it seem.
I stare idly out the passenger window, at a barefoot, grinning, dancing fool of vaguely Rastafarian extraction, whose chest is slick with so many days’ toil.
“This, my friends with whom I’m forging an unlikely bond, is the Planet Product Placement hotel, the best place to go if you wanna contrive an exciting climax.”