The cramped room has faded white walls with various cracks that run like spider webs along the ceiling. There rectangular light on the ceiling flickers occasionally, casting a dull fluorescent glow around the room.

There is a large window covered by shut and dusty blinds, hiding the room from any passerby outside. Opposite of the window is an old door that never fails to creak upon someone’s entrance; it’s rusty handle jamming every third turn. There is a massive black amplifier next to the door with countless amounts of lined papers atop it; each one with at least seven scribbled out lines that had to be rewritten.

The amplifier is attached by a winding black chord to a beaten up and dented microphone, carelessly left at the foot of its towering stand as if dropped by its owner. The once perfectly rounded head of the microphone points to a wooden chair with two electric guitars leaning against it; one is black and sharp, the other orange and rounded.

The bodies of the guitars are almost touching a menacing bass drum precariously placed on a weak stand; one hard kick from its pedal would make it shudder and squirm, as though it was discomforted. The drum is attached to an entire kit, but its crash cymbal has a large crack that splinters out from the center of the dull gold cylinder. In front of the unsteady drum kit is a single sheet of lined paper, resting face-up on the musky blue carpet.

The paper is slightly crinkled around the edges and bright blue ink litters the page in an unceremonious scrawl. The violent markings on the paper form silent words and unfinished thoughts, starting strong with personal ramblings, “Time has frozen the lives we chose.”

There are so many things I would do to escape back to the wondrous place of Power Chord Academy. It’s enchanting with its college-dorm-rooms-turned-band-room and its dingy rental drum kits and its ever musically gifted and ever smiling students. PCA, you’re only a summer away.