Third Sunday, I'm back under the bridge to revitalize my soul which is worn thin from two weeks of overtime, gym time, bed time, rinse, repeat. Drummers lining up on one end near the port-a-johns; fire dancers across from them near the flood rescue boats behind their chain link fence. The audience gathers around them as the ritual gains momentum. The usual assortment of freaks had assembled, from the industrial metal gutter kids to the transvestite belly dancer they were there and taking there places. Things were different this time though. One of the core drummers who goes the nickname Pax wasn't there and I was no longer in the audience. Instead of taking a step closer to the flame I had found my place in the ritual while cleaning out my ex-roommates closet. In it was a small neglected drum.
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