Joe has just worked himself into an imaginary frenzy, during the fade-out of his imaginary song. He begins to feel depressed now. He knows the end is near. He has realised at last that imaginary notes, and imaginary vocals, exist only in the imagination of the imaginer. and, ultimately, who gives a fuck anyway? So... (ha-ha-ha) So... (ha-ha-ha) Excuse me... (ha-ha-ha) So... Who gives a fuck anyway? So he goes back to his ugly little room, and quietly dreams of his last imaginary guitar solo.
