Even after eight-some odd years in the music industry, it was still a struggle for Heroin to suppress his instinctive wince at velvet, red and animal prints. He ended perching on the chair across from Blues, idly flicking through his Blackberry. Most of his attention was centered on the immortal blog system than work, and he finally tossed the thing back into his messenger bag with a guilty start at Blues’ question.
“Nothing to consider, of course I will.” Heroin firmly shoved concerns like multi-tasking, production schedules and Marijuana to the back of his mind. If it came down to it, he could always take a hiatus from producing – even if the thought made something cold and tight clench in the pit of his stomach. It might not come to that, and even if it did, this was Blues. Old friends came before mortal personas; anything Heroin had built as Hazel could be rebuilt a few decades down the line. “Who else, right?”
Without the Blackberry his hands were sadly bereft. Lonely finger drummed against the back of his other hand before he ran them through his hair, shoving it into further disarray. “Maybe I should take up knitting,” it’d give him something to do while waiting, asking anyone in entertainment to show up on time was just begging for the Apocalypse.