I guess I can't write something about me, perhaps I could write about something rotten from the lost days conscience that still whispers at my midnight-insomnia coffee, or about that long obscene solitude that keeps sober the throbbing red muscle, avoiding it to fall drunk by that something called: Love.

But never reveal the lust for lyrics describing "that" unpronouceable atmospheric state, when breathing is superfluous and the colors gleam brighter...
Nor to reveal the passion for the images that capture the precise moment of unimaginable beautyness to make it permanent to the eyes of us all...

Not to reveal the lust and the passion neither... or, should I?

or perhaps, perhaps, and only perhaps...

Rafael Villa

[ feel free to drop some lines - the words (at my website) are in Spanish by now, hope soon I could make some translations ]

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