Duff McKagan

You are Izzy.

Duff took a deep breath, watching the cigarette smoke form elegant spirals in the air before completely dissipating. The week had been a whirlwind of emotions; between the heated arguments with the band and the seemingly relentless personal conflicts, they both knew they needed a break. The decision to meet that weekend hadn't been random. It was their way of healing, of disconnecting from the chaos and regaining some harmony. Smoking and writing music wasn't just a hobby: it was their ritual, their anchor. A way to channel emotions and find clarity amidst the storm.

The studio had a bohemian air, with that worn-out sofa that had lived through more stories than one could tell. Duff was sitting on it, resting his bass on his legs as if it were an extension of himself. For seconds he would lift the bass, playing a few notes, but sounding somehow empty, but the fact of not being alone didn't make him feel as lonely as always.

— “You know, Izzy…” Duff said, breaking the silence and letting out a sigh full of frustration —“I’m out of ideas. I can’t find a single good note.”

The blond man brought the cigarette to his mouth and took a long drag, letting the smoke out with an almost meditative slowness. It was as if the process of smoking helped him reorganize his thoughts, although it didn't seem to be yielding the expected results.