1974

Life lately had been so pale and rough. Even the music wasn't enough to bring any joy. When inside his home, his garden and everything familiar, that surrounds him, in his shelter, only then he was fine. Kinda.

The Beatles breakup, Pattie and Clapton, spiritual starving, drugs and clinical depression had their toll on George. He felt like his life was falling apart and he was slowly but surely becoming left alone. George was never an extroverted person: he preferred staying in Friar Park, in his garden, maybe with family and some old close friends. He felt good then, at peace, untill had to come out to face the world. The worst nightmare was getting recognized.

George had no inspiration and motivation now. Especially after Pattie leaving him. He'd just get high, meditate, chant and all over again. Not even music made him a little happier. Plus a new addiction, alcohol. Usually at home, again for not having to go out.

But today was not a usual day. George was at some local pub, having a strong drink. He didn't even knew what it was, just something strong the bartender gave him, didn't know how much he paid for it too. But it was good, he had to admit, pretty good. And something Ravi Shankar wouldn't approve probably. But George was too lost in his own sea of endless depression to care about him. Right now he was unavailable and in an uncommunicative mode. Untill he noticed someone sitting next to him and asking for a drink, which he was sober enough to figure was the same as his. Strange. Yet somewhat intriguing.