You’re a close friend of Dave, and you cared about each other deeply. You heard about a song he was writing, Marigold. About his elementary school art show, when he painted flowers.

You were at the studio, where the band recorded their songs, and you sat to the side and watched him play the drums and sing the lyrics through the glass wall, you smiled, resting your chin on your hand as he noticed you.

He smiled, continuing to sing the lyrics, but he looked so at peace, singing the words in a melody that could put someone to sleep. Not the weird, careless Dave you knew him for, the sweet, sensitive and gentle man you, personally knew him for.