InsaneJournal

The story about tripping over a cymbal stand and nearly spraining something had been completely true.  Still, it wasn't exactly why Orsino decided, yesterday, that it was time to start clearing out the excess of instruments he had hidden away in that spare room.  They'd just continued to accumulate over the years, more than he thought they might when he first got the place.  It had seemed like a perfect room - out of the way, big enough to qualify as a guest bedroom for guests he rarely had (and, when he did have them, who rarely needed a guest room anyway).  Which was why its purpose had been much better spent this way.

All this thinking about new albums and weddings and even moving altogether had Orsino in a bit of an odd mood, though.  He felt like he needed to start getting rid of extra...stuff.  And, yes, Don was right - if he tried to do it by himself, the likelihood of him getting rid of enough for it to matter seemed low.  He really hoped Don was going to bring beer, though.  And not a trio of three-year-olds.  He knew there was only so long the two dogs could keep them occupied.  As he began to evaluate the relevancy of a set of toms he hadn't properly used in seven years, he heard Eight whining and wondered if the help had arrived.