With a dying chhhhh as a cymbal stops crashing, the moment becomes serene again. Beads of sweat trickle down his temples, making his skin slick. His black shirt that reads "Terror" sticks to his skin like glue between his shoulder blades and on his chest, making movement uncomfortable. Shaggy golden hair clings to his face stubbornly when tapered fingers try to pull it away lazily. His limbs ache with the satisfaction of beating the living hell out of the skins. This normally taciturn, shy boy goes crazy when handed two sticks. His near emaciated, yet well muscled body moves like liquid over his drum-set as he starts up again. One-two, one-two, kick-snare, high-hat on every hit. Calm of the storm blue eyes, laced with red close with euphoria as a skillfully flailed arm zips past his nose dangerously. It was already broken once before in a fight, that's why he took up drumming in the first place. He needed some sort of outlet, some way to channel his pent up energy in a positive direction. But that wasn't the case today; this day was different because he had no reason to be angry. He was surprised at the accuracy he was hitting the heads, he wasn't used to it in this state of mind. The sudden rush of self doubt caused him to throw off his beat and stop abruptly to stare into empty space. He fidgeted with the urge to go over to the coffee table in the corner and fill his bowl with another round, but once was enough for him today.