mes larmes sous les verres noirs

It smells like rain, wood, and an old guitar that's upset about the silence. Everything sounds as if it's coming from a room where the lights haven't been turned on for a long time - only the soft glow of a lamp and a voice steeped in regret. The music rustles like autumn leaves, and every chord is an attempt to bring back the summer that left without saying goodbye.

Here, they cry not aloud, but through the verses: quietly, beautifully, in the rhythm of weary sincerity. A rock star without a stage, just a man in white gloves who hasn't really talked to himself in too long. The world is slightly skewed, the colours have faded, but even through the darkness, light shines through - from those very ‘petals of pain’ turned into a song.