白日

It's like talking to yourself in the cold air when the snow is falling too thickly to see beyond your outstretched arm. Words are not a confession, but a quiet list of what cannot be returned, what was not done in time, what has turned into a lump in the throat. But within this fatigue, there is already a movement forward: let the past stick, let the mistakes remain, but the feet still walk in the present.

The song is like a white sheet of paper that cannot be erased, but on which one can continue to write. The snow here is not only about winter, but about a rare chance to take shelter and stop pretending to be strong. And amid this cold, a barely noticeable warmth is born - the hope that one day, through the changing seasons, you will still meet someone and say the name you have not yet forgotten.