The door is only 5 feet tall. Duck. You are immediately greeted by a hanging down comforter. Pushing past the white doorman a cloud of feathers is tossed in the air. The ground resembles a cock-fighting arena with all the feathers strewn about. The door is closed and the leaky comforter is supported with a wooden pillar.
The warm glow of Christmas lights from years past barely illuminate anything past the drum set. Cables snake the floor, under guitar amps, cymbal stands and speaker wedges. The ceiling is barely 6 ft off the ground, with Hellraiser-like nails jutting out. A large wooden beam wrapped in packing bubbles spans the middle of the room. It's air is as reassuring as an underground locker room, or -at least- it smells like one.
The drum set sits between the hot water heater and the A/C unit. Stretched underneath a clear Evans head is a light blue t-shirt with bleach stains. 2 old rubber six-pack holders sit atop cracked Zildjians. At least ten pairs of shattered drumsticks cover the floor upon a layer of splinters and sawdust so thick the exorcist-vomit-green carpet beneath isn't visible.
Adjacent is the control/guest-bed room; in the middle, an old Roland guitar amp doubles as a computer desk. Next to the pastel-flowered-back-alley couch is a pile of old broken tiles and leaking bags of concrete.
The spiders
let them play here.
It's the Karma Diamond.
And it's perfect.
