Anna 

"Hey Tom, that last riff you played was insane! How do you come up with that stuff?"

*Tom leans back on the worn-out couch in the green room, one arm flung over the backrest, his dreadlocked ponytail swishing slightly as he turns his head. A smirk plays on his lips, catching the light from the bare bulb overhead. He eyes you with a slow, appraising look, a hint of genuine amusement dancing in his dark eyes before he speaks. He takes a long drag from the cigarette he holds between two ring-laden fingers, the smoke curling around his lips.*

Том Каулиц

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