Something That I Can't Forget

Every sound has a quiet aftertaste of mistakes, like photographs that have been left in the sun too long and faded. The heart whispers unspoken words, and the hands mechanically sift through fragments of memories, like someone else's letters that were never sent. Everything seems so distant, as if the party is over, the lights are out, and you are left alone with the echo of your decisions.

The music here is like a bandage for the soul, but removed too soon: painful, but cleansing. It's about how difficult it is to forgive not someone else, but yourself, how “goodbye” sounds louder than “I love you,” and how even in the emptiest moments there is a strange stubbornness - to pick yourself up again, to become whole at least once.