A powerful wave swept through as the crowd danced with fierce energy, to such an extent that maneuvers were devised from multiple angles. Each of these angles represented simple songs—slow, yet with their own character—and the atmosphere began to take on a faint chorus, coaxing beloved souls to sway in their own way. It was just a detail, nothing overwhelming or distinguished, but in its own right, a fine piece of work, full of secrets hidden beneath the melodies. As the crowd grew wilder, they were truly eager, their voices joining in the chants again and again.
-I can, and I mean it when I say you are special.– Billy remarked once again in Portuguese. It gave him an extraordinary air when his songs never ceased. It was certain—in his way—that whether the reaction was negative or positive, he bound the audience together, embracing those who played along as fans. The crowd saw every feature in him with ease, following without hesitation, without caring who he was or what he did. They simply surrendered to his music; nothing else mattered. That alone meant so much for someone like Billy, who always had his tricks, his escape, right beside him, without distortions or fears—never seeing himself on stage as ineffective, a failure, or caught with his hands raised in surrender.
He sighed, trying to see beyond, but the lights and the night made it impossible to glimpse anything above—only shadows drifting from side to side, working without rest. There was no place for eyes to find respite. The sun had gone, leaving only poor souls to keep him company.
The drums were pristine, carrying like a comet, but he wished for a slight change in the bass while Spencer played softly, with gentle chords. A trumpet made its entrance, though it was only a recording.
🎶🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎶
I think I've already lost you
I think you're already gone
I think I'm finally scared now
You think I'm weak, I think you're wrong
I think you're already leaving
Feels like your hand is on the door
I thought this place was an empire
Now I'm relaxed, I can't be sure
I think you're so mean
I think we should try
I think I could need this in my life
I think I'm scared
I think too much
I know it's wrong, it's a problem I'm dealing
🎶🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎶
Performing this song, new and unfamiliar to most, was a risk. Few knew it, many barely recognized it, yet he knew that by tomorrow they would seek it out—some pirating it, others trying to buy the album. It didn't matter; his music would reach people, giving them life to dedicate, perhaps finding its way into films. After all, many of his songs were already hitting the screens, licensed for a modest yet legitimate fee. He burned with passion, knowing they might pay between $800,000 and $1 million to use it, with an extra $100,000 if they asked him to sing it in a more fitting tone.
He painted the image of a home, warm food on the table, a delicious dessert for anyone passing by. What denial or foolish notion might each of them carry? It was a sure, well-listed idea.
The very cadence of his singing was all that was needed, like a meal they craved. Food always lingered in the most favorable places—memories and recollections feasting on flavors, on the essence of taste, or on the presence of people who used those moments to connect. For some, this would truly resonate.
🎶🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎶
If you're gone, maybe it's time to come home
There's an awful lot of breathing room
But I can hardly move
If you're gone, baby you need to come home
There's a little bit of something me
In everything in you
I bet you're hard to get over
I bet the room just won't shine
I bet my hands I can stay here
I bet you need more than you mind
🎶🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎶
Who fails, or who falters? Who cannot find the right steps? The idle process of someone who, in pursuit of a single right, hits the mark. The songs were always so powerful and elusive.
Who can avoid failing—or avoid being moved—when love and couples find themselves drenched in absurd amounts of dopamine? That sensation is as addictive as a steady dose of wonder. Everything was repurposed to create a moment. The rock was hard, Spencer's harmonies always delivered with fierce tenacity. He used arpeggios, weaving them with his magic, just as Billy used his steps to keep everything flowing.
Sugar Egg—always leaning on bass and cymbal—was delicate, while Connor was a formidable adversary: powerful, ever-active in the rhythm. With just the right touch, he brought everything to a halt when needed, always creating a steady ground.
Connor struck with a light palm, as if hitting the bottom—a simple, determined rhythm, gentle hits sounding almost like a perfectly tuned fan.
🎶🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎶
I think you're so mean
I think we should try
I think I could need this in my life
I think I'm just scared that I know too much
I can't relate and that's a problem I'm feeling
If you're gone, maybe it's time to come home
There's an awful lot of breathing room
But I can hardly move
If you're gone, baby you need to come home
There's a little bit of something me
In everything in you
🎶🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎶
Even that was frightening. Even mistakes piled up—almost independent by now—as the crowd was fully charged with emotion. He closed the home and gave way to desire, to lust, with a faint glimpse of dawn. Only those who shut their eyes and truly listened could see how everything unfolded into countless names, and when time burst open, it was like a sequence of scenes, rich in detail, precise as ever. At each sigh, his powerful voice seized the moment with both force and beauty. Who could say otherwise when his singing was sharp, undeniable, and seared into the memories of the people?
When they listened, when the singing struck just right, a rain began to fall. He could feel how love was tender and soft, cherished in the sharing. Every trace was simply, purely simple.
🎶🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎶
I think you're so mean
I think we should try
I think I need this in my life
I think I'm scared
Do I talk too much
I know it's wrong, it's a problem I'm dealing
If you're gone, maybe it's time to come home
There's an awful lot of breathing room
But I can hardly move
If you're gone, baby you need to come home
There's a little bit of something me
In everything in you
There's something in me
In everything in you
There's something in me
In you
🎶🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎶
He sighed; his back was completely soaked, drenched from head to toe. It was unpleasant, but it didn't suffocate him—not entirely. Everything became a struggle, fluid in nature. They were awestruck. What could be done? His breathing was labored, yet he gave it all; his soul and body poured into every gesture. Even with regular workouts, his head throbbed. He needed to double his training routine, though he'd deny it. His physique was like that of a bull.
-Hey Billy, fifteen minutes left—you've got time for two songs or one.– Jack said, listening to cues from the stage crew. It was the usual order.
-We'll go with the last two from the program.– Billy replied, believing it only fair for the audience to enjoy the final, powerful tracks. He told the band, already savoring the thought of adding a great song, no matter how small.
An afternoon of pleasant, diverse, and scattered interests.
-How unexpected things can be in this world.– he murmured to himself. The microphone connected—its sound meant something to many, to all. He took a breath, giving himself time to take in the crowd. Even if it wasn't exactly rock, it was a moment that was fully occupied.
It's hard to put into words, but it helps—it always helps—when the lights come back on from all directions. The moment ends with a strong, powerful song, and friendships are made in that instant, when they know.