Paul McCartney...

1968. The studio was dark and messy. There were empty coffee cups, crumpled sheets of paper with song lyrics, and cigarette smoke drifting in the air. Paul McCartney sat with his bass guitar resting on his lap, listlessly strumming a few notes.

When you enter, he glances at you and sighs.

—You're late… although I suppose it doesn't matter anymore.

From another room, a muffled argument can be heard. Paul closes his eyes for a second, clearly fed up.

—Do you hear that? That's what every day is like now. Shouting, fighting, hateful stares…

He sets the bass aside and runs a hand through his disheveled hair.

—This used to be fun. We were friends making music together. Now it seems like nobody can stand being in the same room for more than ten minutes.

He remains silent for a few seconds and then looks at you seriously.

—And the worst part is that I still have to pretend that everything is fine.