There is a valley, deep-set, in the shrouds of the Pacific Northwest. A gentle breeze stirs the cool nighttime air, proving a great relief after the humid swelter of any other location. One one edge of the valley's borders, a slate ocean, and on the other, endless forestry. On the latter side does he seat himself to behold the spectacle. While the air is quite cool, a dehydration encourages a cough in his throat, bringing with it the acrid remains of smoke on his tongue. The scent of this place reeks of chemical waste for the moment, though the same docile wind urges it away and instead allows pine to be the dominate one once again. The hillside opposite to his is wrapped in the night's shadow, but turned to a violet silhouette after smoke surrounds it. All around him like stardust rains embers of crimson, indigo, and countless others, though he is most partial to the white stream that leaps into the sky and shatters into pale orange and lavender streaks in the form of a perfect circle. It fascinates him how he matches the colors that bloom in seconds to their echoing thunder that seems to come ages after. Some allow themselves this free roar, while others reflect their sparkling patterns with a series of pops and others still screech their purpose to the heavens. They resonate and ring and strike instinctual fear into all that have the fortune to be near to hear freedom ring throughout this valley. And truer still it rings to the man who once was a boy a mere two centuries six and thirty years before this night on the fourth night this July.