“What do you think about bells?” I lobbed the question at Tombstone more to see what he would say than because I thought it was an actual good idea. The two of us were holed up in the Gray Area listening to a drizzle of autumn rain patter on the skylight overhead and trying, at last, to stitch together a new song without much success. He looked up from a notebook of song lyrics and squinted thoughtfully into space as he considered it, then shrugged:
Maybe.
Turning his attention back to the notebook, he pulled Rita onto his lap and began noodling around with a progression of chords. It was the same progression of chords that I’d been knocking my head against for weeks but now it was Tombstone’s turn. He’d been f*****g with it for the better part of an hour but had made no obvious progress
