Wes twirled his sticks and let out at his drums with a passion. The inanimate objects were obviously standing in for something or someone else, holding out their heads in passive acceptance while Wes vented a little frustration. He bashed the bass, trounced the tenor, pummeled the snare and sent the cymbals reverberating with a fury. He too must have been suffering from DSB, but he was damned if he was going to let anyone know about it.




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