The Pulse Beneath the Darkness

He leans into the drums like someone striking at the heart of something ancient and restless. Blue light crawls over metal and skin, turning every movement into a ghost-lit ritual.

Each hit is a quiet violence—a thunder meant not for the ears, but for the bones.The cymbals shimmer like fractured moons, breaking and reforming with every trembling beat.

His head bows low, as if listening to a voice only he can hear, a whisper buried deep in the machinery of the night.

And when he lifts the stick again, the room holds its breath—knowing the next strikewill wake the shadows once more.

picture by NOLA