I am in large halls that belong to Trent Reznor. He is preparing a concert here on two stages. I am also supposed to play a piece. I want to play the concert guitar and then, with more and more musicians, make the music louder and wilder. Two musicians are sitting next to me, programming an arpeggiator. They are laughing. C. is sitting next to someone and talking to him in French. I imagine how the crowd will go wild when we reach the crescendo. I still need a drummer. I chat with a horn player. He picks up his instrument and goes to his rehearsal. I play the four notes of my song on the piano to find out which note to start with: A sharp. I hope my concert will work as a spontaneous improvisation in front of a huge crowd. I continue walking through the halls, past two white private jets belonging to Trent Reznor. I think he always has toothpicks on the tables too.