In a hazy 1970s basement, a teenage boy bangs on his drum set. Crash! Smash! Boom! He's trying to replicate the melodic beats of Mickey Hart. He's in his own world, zoning out his obnoxious father, and his overprotective mother. Lost. Lost, was what he was. Unknown to the world, world to the known. He was racing, racing to catch up. But he didn't know what he was trying to catch up to. Each hit of his drum stick was like a supernova to him, each collision more powerful and more intentional than the last. His callused hands continued to bang again and again on the hard surface. He was in this unearthly place he couldn't describe with words or actions. Forget all the things that happened in his life, if he was going far or going down, all he knew in this moment was he felt complete. As far as he was concerned, there was absolutely nothing better than this.