Latest Blog Post

Broken beats in LA

Rational logic had rules, boundaries, stop signs. Mo hated stop signs. His life was a drum solo: unpredictable, chaotic, irrational. A part of him even believed that the universe operated on the same principle.

He exhaled sharply as the last snare hit echoed in his mind, a faint ghost of his own rhythm still clinging to his fingertips. The studio had been a coffin of sound, and Zoey had been the nail-gun driving him into it. So, naturally, he pointed his boots toward Heathrow and boarded the next flight out of London as soon as they finished recording songs for their first record. Not because it made sense, but because sense had stopped holding hands with him years ago.

She probably won't even notice he's gone. She was too busy micromanaging the alignment of the stars or whatever cosmic nonsense-bullshit she had planned on her tour break.

So he ended up somewhere at the beach in LA. The sand clung to his boots as if it were trying to pull him under. Everything felt off, disjointed, the air electric with the kind of static that precedes a thunderstorm.

That's when he saw her.

His feet moved toward her, irrational logic guiding him forward. Her expression was somewhere between lost and recently found. He didn't ask questions. Instead, he fished the joint from his pocket and held it out like a peace offering to a planet he didn't understand. After what felt like forever, she accepted, as if the transaction had been planned long before either of them existed.

She looked like a mess ... the kind of lit joint that burns too close to your fingertips but you can't bring yourself to put it out. He wasn't sure if he wanted to save her or let her destroy him. Maybe both.

He noticed a crab crawling behind her but said nothing. He didn't want to alarm her and her fragile mood. He just looked at it and nodded "don't you fucking dare!"