Disclaimer: I don't know the people first-handedly or otherwise, and do not intend these to be a realistic representation of their characteristics, personal lives, etc. I may use a great deal of artistic license to make my stories seem far removed from any true facts.
'Under blue moon I saw you, so soon you'll take me...'
Ian scribbles his words on the notepad, concentrating. In moments like this, he can almost feel some kind of presence next him, but he knows it's not real, so he ignores it.
Right now he's all alone, which is how he prefers it. This part - the writing - is all his, and with this one he felt compelled to write the lyrics before the music, so he can properly devote himself to it and not just rely on his quick wit - which was still in good condition, thank you very much.
He can feel now, more than just Pete's drums clanking in his ears, Will's soaring or twiddling guitar parts, and Les' rhythmic bass. Rest assured, they would all have a time and a place - as he contemplates the structure of the verses, the length of each syllable, the right feel for this song - he has more or less of an idea of what this baby would sound like, and he hopes his friends won't let him down on that one. Each time he picks up a phrase, a melodic idea, a wordplay - he can feel his toes curl up. He feels his back slumped heavily over the brick wall outside where he's standing, the weight abstractly shifting from his lower back to his feet and back up - still leaning, but his legs are dangling forward in an angle. He curls his lips along the metallic end of his pencil, seemingly absent-mindedly - but he sucks gently and bites it in order to grasp onto *something* now, to know his words are coming from within, and not by any outside source. The image in his head is so striking, but clear, like gazing at your reflection in the water.
The paper sheet is darkening before his eyes, and he needs to strain them to look at the words. He knows he's been hanging around for hours, and the night's beginning to fall. There's no use of trying to read what he'd written, everything he sees is just a smudge of greys now, and he's trying to shake off that feeling, that there are just things in life that you have no control of, and you can't will them away.
All he has left now are those images in his head, and some of his words, though he forgets them, so now his visual memory takes over, captivating him on a different level - before the night falls down and takes his soul away - No, wait, why would the night consume him? Where did that thought come from?
He shuffles his feet and moves down, until he sits with his back at the wall. Just a little dark figure crumpled over the wall at night, and if someone gives him hassle he would say he's looking for his muse, people often just think he's weird and leave him alone.
He can't be bothered to keep his eyes open - he often doesn't - and in-between dreaming about home-made cooking and football, he dreams about the moon over the Mersey river, and how magical it seemed to him when he was a kid; How gorgeous and mysterious it was to him. He could hear it call for him, whatever it means. He's sure it would call him again one day.
He wakes feeling a lot calmer, though in his mind, he estimates he hasn't been dosing off for long - his biological clock is never wrong on these things. As he puts his notepad under his arm and gets ready to leave, he can feel someone touching his shoulder, but he turns around and sees no one. He shrugs it off, huddling because he's gotten colder.
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