It starts somewhere in your guts, and then it shoots through your frame like 1501 volts. It began as a faint drumming in your heart, a marching band filling in for an army. arrows sticking out of their pelt drums and occasinally, into their torn biceps or calf muscles.The drumming begins without worry for loss of life or the wounded, and everyone drums somehow. A rag-tag band of the dying become something more, and the wrath of love has removed the plagues in their hearts somehow. Occasionally a train needs to slap you at full speed and punch you through reality to force change. There is only healing left to do, as long as there is living to be done, and we all must plnt one foot, one toe at a time, into the ground. We must use the drums as shields in the phalanx, bands together in our soul and march. There is never a goal, but march on. Life is a journey, and the march is all that matters.