Gigante de Cristal

Sometimes it seems that the heart is not an organ, but an apartment building. You seem to be living peacefully, but then someone suddenly moves out, slamming the door, and immediately it becomes hollow, empty, with echoes walking down the corridors. Everything seems to be in place - the walls, the furniture, even the smell of coffee in the morning - but the warmth is gone. And all that remains is the habit of waiting: what if they come back? What if they knock on the door again, and there's a different lock, but the hole in the wall still hasn't been filled in.

Music is like the light of a lantern in broken glass. Soft, but with cracks. About how even the strongest have fragments, and how difficult it is to admit that they still shine with someone else's reflection.