Being wanted, known, and loved is what I knew. Or at least an illusion of what I thought I had. But when the blood became water and the consistent presence was stagnant, my voice became static and my birthright a suggestion. The loss felt like the abandonment of gravity, the abandonment of something so certain. And it’s in the mystery and broken promises of absolutes and “the way it should be"s, I found my heartbeat. 
 So maybe the bullets and lies weren’t just deep wounds and scars made, but pivotal invitations to celebrate instead of mourn. Maybe pop music isn’t just loud noise, all about the beat, red solo cups, or parties. Maybe the loudest, most anthemic, and fist-pumping tracks are the echoes from the deepest, darkest, loneliest, and most vulnerable valleys. 
 Every let down and lost relationship taught that challenge and opportunity look a lot alike. The difference is in the perspective. So with every trial, another old receipt had lyrics scribbled on it, another melody was recorded onto my phone, and the musical pursuits of Lýkoh evolved.