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Imagine...

You're in a cramped motel bathroom lighting a cigarette.

Your third since you locked yourself in here are...

Maybe your fourth. You've lost count.

Your hands tremble as you cup them over the match.

You've tried to tune out the fist fight happening right outside the bathroom door.

You've seen this before. Your husband's drunk in rages and how easily they can turn violent.

And tonight, he is very, very drunk.

You close your eyes and lean back against the cold tile wall.

And you retreat into your inner safe space.

Your mind goes back to the song you recorded earlier tonight.

By your hands felt gliding across the piano keys.

By your voice sounded as it soared over the music.

You wish you were back in the studio now doing one more take.

It was a good song. Maybe the best one you've ever recorded.

I let your husband have to get drunk and pick a fight with the band.

He's supposed to be your manager, but...

...lately he seems to be on your side less and less.

Tell with you then, never send him foot in my studio again.

You're sure the fight is over, but...

...this is when you get really tense.

...