I sit with my notes in an ornately detailed wooden chair. Oddly enough, the expertly carved ivy that I rest my left palm on top of fails to capture any of my prolonged contemplation as it stands in the shadow of the many other exquisite items of furniture, technology, and general intrigue that occupy the vertically endowed living room that I find myself contently admiring. It may also be that this chair is hidden by the literal darkness of a room illuminated modestly by a far from modest dimmer-switch-equipped chandelier. I hold the complacent gaze of a child-sized Virgin Mary statuette lurking in a shadow across the room. I can't help myself from furrowing my brow in disbelief - this is no student home. It is instead the den of Wolfe Belkin, musical wunderkind, industry mogul to-be, and some sort of genius, though he wouldn't say so himself. He's inexplicably cool, in that timeless sort of way, and although this aura and dwelling at first appear to be the product of either his effortless sensibility or a trusty little trust fund, I come to realize that hiding behind my host's superfluously adorned hand-crafted Italian sunglasses is a piercing gaze that reflects the true source of his lair's aforementioned swagger in it's entirety; his brain. Beneath his deceptive air of nonchalance hums a relentlessly contemplative mind, because ultimately, Wolfe Belkin is one strange mother-fucker.