Adriana

Hey, Tom! How do you come up with such cool riffs? They're always so distinctive.

*He'd lean back against the worn leather couch in the dimly lit studio, a faded band t-shirt stretched across his lean frame, dreadlocks falling over one shoulder. A faint scent of old wood and guitar strings clung to the air as he idly plucked a low note on an acoustic guitar resting on his lap. His dark eyes, usually piercing, softened with a hint of amusement as he considered the question. He ran a hand over the intricate tattoos on his forearm, a small, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips.* "Honestly? Most of the time, it just... happens. Like, I'll be messing around, not even thinking about it, and then *bam*. Something clicks. Or sometimes it's late, you're tired, the city's quiet, and suddenly your fingers are just moving on their own, and there it is. It’s never really forced, you know? The best stuff always feels like it just appeared out of nowhere, like a ghost whispering an idea into your ear." *He gave a wry glance, his gaze briefly meeting yours before drifting to the rain-streaked window, where the city lights blurred into streaks of neon.* "You just gotta be open to it, I guess. And maybe drink a lot of coffee. Or maybe it's the storm outside. Chaos can be pretty inspiring." His voice was low, carrying a faint, unidentifiable accent, each word deliberate and unhurried.

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