Rob closed his eyes, and for a moment, embraced the noise; the distorted endless ringing of an electric guitar. 

He was exactly four minutes into [url=https://youtu.be/gzB9XCrwvMk?t=4m]Right In Two - Tool[/url]. His morning routine.

His hands moved over to the electric pads, and began their endless rhythm. Diddles, triplets, and syncopation galore. The guitars hummed along behind his tapping. There were no key signatures here. No coordination with the bassist or guitar. Just free-form tapping. For eighty seconds, the song would continue as it was. Just solo drums. Just the way Rob liked it. 

Slowly, the other instruments would fade in. Chugging by the guitars and bass. Then, with a quick roll, Rob switched from the electronics to the acoustics. 

Here, the toms dominated the songwriting. Timed crashes matched tones from the bass. The singer glided over the lines: 

[i]
Fight, over life, over blood, over prayer. Overhead and light. [/i]

Next came more madness; and endless wall of noise in sight, and nothing but the drums in front of him to replicate the maddening tapestry. His eyes locked shut. Sweat poured down his face. 

His mind strained to lock onto the 11/8 time signature. Slowly, the song devolved into syncopated hits. Here, there was nothing but noise. Wet locks of hair stuck onto Rob’s face and eyes. The sticks were beginning to slip through his fingers. And still he marched on. 

[i][b]Hit. Hit. Hit-hit. Hit. Hit. Hit-hit. Hit. Hit. Hit-hit. [/b][/i]


Finally, with a final roll, Rob had propelled the song into it’s final chorus. In his mind, his job was complete. By the time he finished the song and jumped into the shower, it was only seven-thirty. 

[hr]

Rob’s life was always very organized. Especially today, at the beginning of the tour. 

He made sure to pack everything, and dress well; his grey hoodie over a brown V-neck, black jeans, and converse. Sure…it was generic for him. But it was Rob. Everything was monochromatic in his wardrobe. No point in changing that now.

Rob wanted nothing to go wrong here. He had convinced his parents to help him with the cash to purchase a second touring kit, so that Rob didn’t need to bring his lavish, complex one on the road. He doubted he’d have the time to set the damn thing up if he had taken it instead of the new kit. 

He thought about the new kit—which was lying, ready to be loaded near the front door—as he ate his morning breakfast. 

Two hard-boiled eggs stared back at him from the plate. He knew this would be the last time he had the time or the money to eat so nice for a while. 

A part of him was very glad the tour was happening. Their new single had been attracting enough attention to help pay for it, for once, and it would be good for the band. Sam, Austin, and Jane all seemed to be happy about it too, as far as he could tell. 

The other part of him wasn’t exactly pleased, either. The single was great, sure, but it was undeniably basic. Rudimentary. Catchy. The kind of song radios would pick up, but not the kind Rob liked to play. What’s the point if there’s no need to even practice the song? Theres no fun with no challenge.

Jane had talked to him about it earlier that week, and gotten him more appreciative of the track than he was before. For all of their issues, Jane knew how to calm Rob down, and Rob knew how to manage Jane’s rougher edges. In some ways, they complimented each other like this. If she wasn’t in the band, Rob would surely quit.  Sam and Austin were nice guys, and good at what they do, but the were friends of circumstance. Jane, Rob actually enjoyed being around. 

When the room shook as Jane played on the horn, however, Rob considered changing his chain of thought. 

“Fuck,” he muttered to himself, before standing up. He had forgotten the group message, and no matter how often she’d honk at him to leave, it was still startle him.

Heading outside, Rob silently opened the backdoors of the van and loaded his touring kit, before throwing in his own bag of shit atop the others. Just before closing the door, Rob opened the side compartment on his bag. Nestled inside was a leather-bound journal, just where he had placed it. Content, Rob turned, closed the doors and headed for his own reserved seat. 

“Hey J,” Rob said through a smile as he sat in his seat. The way the words rolled off his tongue ensured he’d never stop saying it. “Sam. Austin,” he through out, looking back at them. By their looked, neither seemed too receptive of his happiness. Perhaps they had known him long enough to know it wouldn’t last long. 

Taking the AUX chord, Rob through on another hardcore tune. [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eupzM8kgmpc]Kill Me Quickly - Thrice.[/url]

Something about this specific song felt good to play. It was the first on the album it came from. And this was a first for his band, too. They hadn’t embarked on a tour this long before, and he hoped that that was a good thing. One step closer to finding a way out for him. 

“[i]Fuckin’ unreal[/i],” he said aloud, thinking about all that was happening. “This oughta be fun.”