He's typing at his laptop. No notes. No double spacing. Just his thoughts.
He don't care… he's alright.
He don't care, it's alright.
I cut you dead
don't you tell.
He don't care. He don't care. It's all right
He don't care. He don't care. It's all right
He don't care. He don't care. It's all right
He don't care. He don't care. It's all right
He don't care. He don't care. It's all right
He don't care. He don't care. It's all right
He don't care. He don't care. It's all right
Yeah yeah yeah
The lyrics of the song playing from one of PETRA'S cassettes, reverberate in his head.