Drain
Bobby hires a handyman to fix a clogged pipe only to discover that her problem may be far more sinister.
I am Quinn O’Brian, a composer shaped by the invisible currents of nations— the U.S.’s restless innovation, Argentina’s melancholic pulse, India’s intricate rhythms, China’s meditative depth, Japan’s indomitable spirit, and Europe’s timeless grandeur. Music is not a mere collection of notes but an ongoing conversation with the past, an echo of those who redefined sound. Piazzolla’s tango was never just dance—it was destiny in motion. Rahman wove tradition into the fabric of the future. Zimmer and Shore did not compose; they summoned entire mythologies. Schifrin’s jazz was the rhythm of fate, Morricone’s silence more profound than any crescendo. And Wagner-his music was time itself, expanding and contracting in endless leitmotifs. With their music readily available as I grew up, I was allowed to inhabit their worlds. Their melodies are not bound to instruments, nor to time-they live within us, reshaping the way we understand stories: not as sound, but as infinite universal memory.1
