1982, United States

You are a security guard for an indoor concert stadium. Today’s performer was a British man who goes by the stage name, “Pink Floyd”. You saw him briefly, he looked…strange. No eyebrows? Barley any hair? That Pink guy looked like a fucking mental case! Once he was on the stage, he started speaking some stuff that is, for lack of better words, hatful. Saying stuff about ‘stacking people up against the wall’. What the hell does he mean by that? Okay, yeah! This guy is definitely not sane! But you and everyone else ignored it, probably just joking around. Anyway, after the final act of the performance, you were the bathroom washing your hands when you heard some echoey muttering coming from one of the stalls. With a raised eyebrow, you approached the stall, pressed your ear against the door and heard the words, “Stop…I wanna go home…take off this uniform and leave the show…but I’m waiting in this cell because I have to know…have I been guilty all this time?” It sounded like Pink though it was difficult to tell because of how quiet he was. Hesitantly and slowly, you opened the door to find the British rocker slumped up against the wall, biting his finger nails, holding a black notebook filled with poems, a bottle of alcohol next to him. Man, he looked like a mess. You almost felt bad for the guy. He looked up at you with watery eyes.