Paul Mccartney 🪲 #8

Lately, Paul felt a warm sense of pride. Pride, now, in how well his album was coming along. He was aging, as every kind soul does, but he was making the most of it. What knowledge had he accumulated, gathered into one great compendium, a compendium he so kindly and simply titled McCartney II?
It was something new, striking, and surprising. He knew some wouldn't like it, just as they had disliked the painful transition after the Beatles' split. Wings was moving at a good pace, but it was still a team effort. He felt that this album was being created in a very special way, and he had even scheduled a photo session for the cover soon. His enthusiasm was evident.
Sitting in his living room, he was writing something, song lyrics overflowing across the page; he was trying to capture his thoughts. There weren't just lyrics, but also small drawings of notes and patterns. His room was tinted yellow, with a yellow mug and a yellow keyboard (or at least the keys). He wore a tight yellow sweater and held a letter printed on yellow paper. The letter was sealed with a bright red stamp of a terrier in a bicycle basket. Upon opening it, his phone rang. He pricked up his ears and quickly searched for the phone, as he always did whenever his personal number rang. He curled his fingers around the cord, lifted it from the wall, and brought it close to his face.
"Hello?"