Air. Bernard needed air. Or a cigarette. Probably just a cigarette.

Forrest was driving him crazy, belly-aching about artistic integrity and a message and "punkness" or whatever, so much so he was about to plummel his bandmate. Meanwhile, the label was breathing down their necks, his especially.

He opens the door to the terrace at the recording studio with a thud, only to find another presence there.

"Uh... Excuse me." Bernard suddenly remembers his manners. "Do you mind if I smoke?"