When my heart begs for a resounding melody, sometimes I just want to hit the keys for capital letters.
It seems that black and white doesn't want to echo in my soul. I don't hear the translated echo, I only see it in a string vibration.
It is this muse that is also the driver of my inner self, and more often than not demands lyrical attention, but then through the fingers of creation.
From which only I myself expect something to emerge. I might dab feelings into a Swan Lake.
For me it is like life, as a human being alone.
Where especially the universe will understand me, it is good what I do and has no coldness and may be there and will mature freely in expansion
Should you experience me less on the hard white, know this: My muse and I dream in silence.
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