Waving becomes speed painting. Here. Now. No repititions. No return. Mistakes, internal freedom, improvise me! Birth and death of hundred lost, injured melodies found in my sonic-pop-galaxy. Past. Present. Romantic Futurist , I had pity on them and they had pity on me for 30 seconds, 1 minute, 3 hours, 1 day and then i let them die. I knew that they were not going to return and shovelled to them a grave in my ears. From time to time I visit this crypt. Memento, dairy of live, red, white, black chronicles…"