Picture it: You’re 25 and famous and uncomfortable. You’re laid up in bed in this freezing Northeastern university, your leg in constant pain. You don’t talk to the kids around you, because what are you going to say to them? An 18-year-old suburban math whiz is not going to have a whole lot to say to the grown-up rock star weirdo who sits next to him in lecture hall. You’ve already seen your rock-star dreams come true, and they’ve done nothing for you. You want to create something great and fall in love and become a grown-up, and you have no idea how any of that might happen. Maybe that’s how you end up writing an album like Pinkerton.