Brian Wilson

“You haven’t said a word since you plopped on the couch. You gotta talk, man!” Ed was lying upside-down on the time-beaten sofa, legs dangling over the back, guitar in his lap. “C’mon, something’s up, what is it?” Ty craned his neck to look at his friend
“Just thinking.” Ed mused, drifting off.
“About what?”
“What to think about.”
Ty snorted. “Well, that’s specific.”
“No, I was just remembering how whenever I was really down, especially late at night early in the week, I’d wander down to the music store downtown. It’s good therapy, you know.”
Ty was skeptical. “Depressed or something?” Ed shrugged. “Know what? You need to write something. That always helps.” Ty’s iPod, which was on shuffle, started to play an old Beach Boys song. “Dang!” he cried, getting up. “Don’t know why I haven’t gotten rid of it yet.”
“No no! Keep it, I got an idea!” Ed called, strumming some chords on his guitar. “Drove downtown in the rain, nine-thirty on a Tuesday night, just to check out the late-night record shop…

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