The wind whistling through boarded-up windows. Tumbleweeds scratching across dry, sandy tracks. That's how towns die. Not with a bang, but with whispers and whimpers.

Speaking of harm's way. Know what I see lookin' at you? Walking, talking corpses.

Well, that way you'd kill two souls. Is that what you want?

Give yourself time. Ideas'll come. Life'll shake you, roll you, maybe embrace you. The music'll find you.