"Where the fuck're you going?" Mark caught Roger's arm as he tried to leave the Loft with three bags ( Read more... )

"Alright. I've given you your space. Now you need to tell me what the fuck's going on." Roger looks up from the couch to see Mark standing with his hands on his hips.

"Enough with the dramatics, Cohen. It's none of your business."

"Like hell it's not. You're in this Loft, and you're moping again. Hell, I haven't seen you mope like this since..."

" ( Read more... )

The Loft is... mostly as it always has been. Perhaps a bit cleaner, perhaps a few more things to eat lying around, but really, it never changes. Roger is on the couch, Fender in-lap, plucking out some tune that will probably end up on the Moving Pictures soundtrack. Strangely, no one else seems to be around. Odd? Probably not.

Roger grew up in a middle-class home in South Boston. His parents didn't have the most money in the world, but they could create a comfortable life for Roger. As a teenager, he wanted nothing more than to start a band ( Read more... )