Sitting down on my stool, I comfort myself. I move in and snug the snare reaching for the sticks I glare the drums. Silent and still no sound to be heard, I think for a moment then begin a pattern that's fluid and familiar but completely unknown. I've entered a realm that I cannot explain. It's as if my arms and legs are moving as they see fit to do and where they see fit to go. The rhythms are known but are randomly flowing from my thoughts as quickly as I can maneuver, no time to count, no time to think, just improvise. I roll off the snare and across a tom and crash a cymbal simultaneously thumping the bass. A volley of syncopation, rudimentary and smooth, as I roar to a decrescendo that's as still as a morning dew. I begin again off the hats, switching back and forth from left to right, rolling the bass in an accepted flux and head to a crescendo of cymbal clashing collage. The room continues to reverberate short and sustained as I slide the sticks back into their home until their awakened again to join in another union of fury and flare.