/Focus. Hear the sounds in your head. Hear the melody. This is what it's going to sound like. Take a deep breath, relax, hit record. Give it a second, then press the button on the sequencer to start the bassline. The bass fades in, slow, plodding. Restrained. Sync up the drum machine. Start. Drums pick up the rhythm started by the bass. Add in a few hits on the off-beat. Start lightly with the guitar. Caress the strings, don't ruin the ambience. Build up slowly. This time it might work. Move a little higher on the strings Get ready. Almost time to kick it into gear. Wait - and... now!/ Suddenly the notes are coming out completely wrong. /It was so clear in my head!/
Joshua stops the tape. /Another take ruined./ The drums and bass keep going like a chicken that doesn't realize its head is missing. /Just like mine,/ thinks Joshua. /Where is my head? Why can't I do this any more? Am I destined to be just another one-hit wonder?/ Cringing at the thought, he gets up and leaves the studio. Passing the framed original album cover on the wall, he stops and stares at it for a moment. The cover is a picture of Joshua's face, half in darkness so it looks almost like a crescent moon, with the words BEAT AUTOPSY and TEN MINUTES TO MIDNIGHT at the bottom. /Is that all you've got in you? Can't bring the ideas out any more?/ "Maybe I need a vacation," he says with a bitter chuckle.
Joshua steps across the living room and into the kitchen. "Maybe," he says to himself, "I need to loosen up. A Scotch should help. It's never too early for Scotch." He holds the glass up to the window for a moment, watching the ice settle into the drink and condensation form and drip down the side. Shaking his head, he walks back into the living room and sits on the couch. The pile of junk mail is getting bigger. Picking up the top envelope, he realizes that this one doesn't look like junk mail. /How long has that been sitting there? He slides his finger under the flap. A jury duty notice? For tomorrow...?/