Thrumb, thrumb, thrumb — drum — thrumb… it pounded its code, the beating never ending. So the drums sounded, and they repetitively spelled his name. It and he, were forever here to stay. It should have come with a warning label, like, “cigarettes are addictive.” The sound was ambivalent, a supernova rhythm — lonely, but it cared. Additive! Additive! Additive! It shook me to my roots. I could feel myself reaching. I was turning weed to food, and that’s where I heard…