Somewhere, a drum beats out the rhythm of life. It keeps the pace of time and sets the tempo of the seasons.
John heard the drums in the alley on his way to Wasabi Street Coffee. He stopped. He never stops for things like this.
The scene was all hair, dirt, and sweat. The occasional flash of teeth, yellowed and chiseled into a smile, would peek through as the cloud of matted gray hair parted.
The vagrant played on the meager drum set, just a couple of drums and a cymbal. It was purple and sparkly but clearly worn and trafficked, a totem of the man playing them.
John did not envy him at all. He loved his life and the success he had built through hard work. He did miss the abandon with which the vagrant played the drums. Like his smell, the sound and the fury with which he played out the beat filled the alleyway and mixed in an incense of sound and stink.
John carried on. He walked with a new confidence, a memory awoken. He had his own drums to beat. He would become a tempest of passion for that which he had already put his hand to, and when others caught a glimpse of his own chiseled smile as he worked and moved through life, maybe they would begin to play their own meager drums.