Here is the beginning. I hope you like it.
Revolver
Impossible colours exploded in her head, her skull, her head, her skull. The images flickered like a strobe light, like Morse code, like a stroke…Christ she was high. No, she was low, so low. The song would not come to her; its words fled from her: birds in a field. Did that make her the hunter?
Guns. Revolver. She gazed at her tattoo – the revolver was famous, her first. Thousands of fans had copied it in homage to her music, to her pain. Everyone identified with her pain. Was her pain a drug? It fuelled her writing. She didn’t write happy songs did she? No, her voice was the voice of longing, of longing, of longing…she needed another hit. But she should pace herself. Revolver, and the memories revolved in her head. The album had gone platinum, global, crazy, and her life had changed for ever.
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