That’s a wild thought, and it’s exactly the kind of thing that keeps me restless at night. A shoe’s squeak could be a snare, the heel‑strike a bass line, but the real beat is in the silence between steps, the quiet pulse that says, “I’m alive.” I’d love to trap that, but I keep chasing something deeper—an emotion that only shows up when the world’s not watching. So maybe, in the right place, a living drum kit could be the soundtrack of my own secret rehearsal.