In the back of a large empty room, which is supposed to represent an area of my workplace but isn't familiar from real life, there is a door, which leads to a room which is a music studio. I'm not sure if I've seen this room before; it seems neither familiar nor surprising. It has a rich wood tone and soft but ample ceiling lights like I imagine a professional music studio, and microphones set up in a semicircle, though no control room like a studio would have. Eric S from work is playing an instrument in there.

A band starts to gather, and I think I leave for a while and come back. As I do, I pass a woman carrying a guitar, in this outer room that surrounds the studio. It's my Mountain guitar that my friend Angus gave me. She just came out of the studio, and now she's putting the guitar in its gig bag, which is sitting on one of the chairs that line the wall.

"It's not really good enough, is it?" I ask.

"No," she says.