Capital H

Bass.
A beat.
He wonders to himself, lounging in those much-loved couches outside, the sun closing on its set, bathing the sky a warm orange until it bleeds blue farther from the horizon, clouds sitting upon it lightly as if only smears in the painted sky. He watches the sun's descent between the tin carport roof and the bricks of the house and he wonders why he so enjoys these quiet moments in bass. Though not quiet in the traditional sense, the beat shakes his body about, no, it was a beat that was for him alone, plugged between headphones, and for once his voice is at rest. Like this with his friends conversation was rife, spiraling off on tangents and miraculously finding their way back to the original stream of consciousness, like waves breaking on an ocean shore, but on his own there was no reason to talk, and so he went inwards. To the beats of the music he would reflect, on times recent and times long passed, taking memories and weaving them into prose, tales that can stand alone and be a part of something else, something bigger, something more complete. A full picture of a life, for a life is far larger a thing to measure than one would expect.
He had been seeing a therapist for a few weeks now, and though he had originally intended to see a councilor regarding his study management, he found the sessions taking on a life of their own. By the time she asks him what he wants out of the sessions, his intentions have changed completely and the focus becomes about him, all of him. As he illustrates to her at one point, the appeal of the sessions was that he didn't have to hide from anything, pure selfish indulgence, the license to open oneself without fear of judgment, an isolated connection completely devoid from the web that so consumed his life, for to everyone in that web, every single one, a different face was shown, perhaps only the slightest of changes, like the way he held himself, to the greatest shift in personality. Every one of those people see him differently.
So for a complete picture of a life, each of these faces must also be recorded, for it is a part of the puzzle, a perception just as real as the true thing.
Each eye a looking glass; each thought behind it.
And we are only able to record this perception in the reflection of our own perception of they, telling the tale of our own relationship with that person to see how they see us. A reflection of a reflection of a reflection. Mirrors within mirrors. A life is bigger than you think.
When the bass kicks in he journeys inwards to the beat of drums. Imagined worlds take form and crumble beneath him, streams of thought meander through his mind through the real and the pretend, fiction fused with fact, dreams take form behind his eyes like a veil, he stares, not asleep, but not quite awake, off in his own world and stuck firmly here. An infinite landscape between headphones; the only direction his thoughts might have, the emotions, the moods, that the music evokes.
In a beat.
And bass.