Dear Sean

Fourteen

We fell right into recording the new album.

“This one’s got to be meaningful,” Paul said. “No shite about an imaginary girl, we’ve got to be better than pop.”

“We are pop,” I said, rubbing an eye in pure exhaustion. I never slept well, but last night had been terrible; Julian had a nightmare and woke me up in the middle of the night, though I’d only been asleep for half an hour, and I couldn’t get back to sleep after that. I was ready to snap at the slightest provocation.

“Well, now we’re changing,” said Paul with a dangerous edge to his voice. Ringo sat at the drums, looking dispassionately at our snappish exchange; we’d been arguing more often than not in the studio.

Since now we were deciding to write only meaningful songs, I was having a hard time thinking of genius things to write. But sometimes the best ideas come when you’ve all but given up.

I lay on the floor, looking up at the ceiling.

There were moldings I’d never really taken the time to notice, a stupid thing with fruits and ribbons or whatever, decorative grapes and birds. Why not add cherubs while they’re at it, then? I thought sourly.

The smoke from my lit ciggie floated straight up from my hand that rested on my forehead, my eyes squinting, trying to look at the ceiling but not wanting to get up to get my glasses.

Why bother? I wondered.

Stuck here in the dreary suburbs, trying to think of a song—out here in the middle of nowhere, making nothing songs for nobody—

I sat up quickly and burned my hand with the dying embers of my smoke.

Shit, that was brilliant. That was the song I needed. I clambered up, testing my legs that were shaky from disuse, before getting a crumpled paper that Julian had drawn lines on, before turning it to the blank other side.

I spotted a pen lying on the couch, probably left by Paul, and started scribbling lyrics.

My idea was a song called Nowhere Man.

“Nowhere Man? What’s this about?” Paul asked the next Sunday.

            “Well, it’s about this man who lives in a nowhere land and only sees what he wants to see—it’s all written there,” I said sarcastically.

            Paul shot me a lightly annoyed look.

            “Is that how you see yourself?” he asked softly, after reading the lyrics through again.

            He could always see right through my bullshit. I didn’t answer but that was all the confirmation he needed. Paul sank down onto the floor next to me, using the leather couch behind him to lean against.