2002, 8:29 a.m.

You had just rolled out of bed, a jungle sat over your head, while you look over to your side, Serj calmly scribbling in his palm-sized notepad with his bouncy curls immaculate as ever. His arrival from rehearsals last night was filled with nothing but complaining and longing for a better society. The pools of sleep hung low under his eyes however, it only further accentuated his dirt colored eyes. The ethereal sun sat high in the sky, its glow filed in through the slits in the blinds.

With an attempt of a sneaky peek, you glance at the messy writing littered about the page, but apparently you’re not as clever as you thought. He responds in his thick gruff, his eyes never leaving the page.

“Yesterday we got pulled over by some pigs,” he spat out with a jaded frown. “I’m writing a poem about the ordeal, dear.”