It was a small room full of smoke of one sort or another. A bottle of Wild Turkey sitting in the ashes. The shelves were full of ephemera and oddness, a Kiss magazine leaning next to a copy of Winnie the Pooh four urns with the ashes of three dogs and a father clustered together.
Mike stands, a drum kit and guitars leaning against amps.
The walls were covered in mattresses as an attempt to soundproof things, the windows were also covered, there was no ventilation and a lone fan pushed the smoke around the room.
Listen to this:
“I was born the day they shot JFK
The way you look at me sucks me down the sidewalk
Somebody please tell this machine I’m not a machine…”
Shit thats the best song the stones never wrote, you’re welcome.