Waiting for something that would be: familiar feeling, isn't it? We look forward to when she comes back, look forward to when the morning comes; waiting to stop the rain (or when will finally rain...). Life itself is a... waiting? Note…

This is like, hmm... like talking to a stranger on a train. First, it's nothing about, and then suddenly you discover that you're about to tell your life; or you listen to someone's story, seemingly intricate or simple (and therefore seemed familiar…

To be true to yourself - how is it? True to the sound that you retrieved from the instrument, to give [share] it away to others (to whom? you'll never know)? True to the mood that you're trying to follow, and which changes before you realize what…

Soul: it exists, it does not gets old, it just gets... tired. But we'll feel this later, much later.

How precise I have to be? And where is the boundary beyond which comes unnecessary perfectionism?

Muted strat - what could be better for a quiet holiday for one?

Tango, yeah... It often seemed to appear as displaying the life itself, but in reality it's just... ~tired passion~

Where to go away everything that we created? To nowhere, I guess. So, the show goes on. Or: tomfoolery all the way, yeah!

My dedication to all the night people. ~Midnight, alone, you~

Who to believe? relatives, who drop out over time? loved ones, that dissolve in the night? yourself one, without being sure of anything? to a stranger who disappears at the same moment? Perhaps the question itself is not correct.