Page 90 of Hollow Heart

Felix

Samson meowsat me petulantly as I strum away on my guitar.

While I usually write late at night, this morning when I woke up, I couldn’t get the words out of my head. Instead of fighting it, I sat down in my studio, busted out my guitar, and started to play.

And the words came easily, much easier than they have in the past.

But one glance at my clock tells me it is a half hour past this little orange demon’s snack time, which means he’s likely to murder me in my sleep if I don’t feed him.

“You are impossible, you know that? A total muse killer.” Samson stares at me with disdain.

I haven’t had a pet since I was probably a kid. I never saw the point, being as I’m gone so much, and I realize as he voices his very important opinion on his starvation, that I need to figuresomethingout.

I can always get my regular housekeeper to take care of him, but something about leaving him with someone else makes me feel paranoid, not to mention, I kind of like having him around. It’s less lonely.

“What do you think, huh? Think you can handle a stadium tour?”

Samson looks at me with a murderous gaze and lets out a high-pitched meow.

As long as you feed me on time, I don’t care where we are.

I roll my eyes, figuring it’s best to sate the beast before he gets too ornery, and drop my newly gifted guitar from Duncan on the couch.

Samson follows me out to the kitchen, and I ready his bowl, which readsBad Kittywith a fishbone skeleton.

Though he isn’t really bad, at all.

More like badass.

Hey, if Taylor Swift can cart her cats around the world, surely I can bring him to a couple shows.

After I’ve slaved in the kitchen to bring my feline god their offering of canned tuna, I take a look around my open space, which is practically so pristine, it doesn’t look like anyone lives here.

In fact, it looks more like a museum than a house.

When I bought it, I hadn’t really thought about the size. Everyone worth their salt had a huge ass house that was decked out to look like a space station, right?

Not to mention, I was constantly touring and traveling and didn’t really plan on spending much time at home, so what did it matter what it looked like?

But this last year, things have slowed down a lot.

Black Seabombed, and press has been at an all time low, and suddenly, I found myself alone in this massive house.

Except for the parties, of course. The parties Sully threw because he said my house was perfect for them, and it would go right along with theimageI am presenting to the masses.

Then Lou came to me with the news of thePillars of Rocktour, and I couldn’t say no.

I was getting too antsy in this damn place, and Sully’s ying-yang bullshit was starting to grate on my last fucking nerve. So, of course, I said yes.

But now, as I stand here, I realize the reason I’ve never felt at home here is because I’ve nevermadeit a home.

Everything in this place was designed by someone else.

Everything, except for my studio.

Even my bedroom was designed and decorated by someone else.

Someone whose presence seems to haunt me like a ghost everywhere I go.

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