Milu

Soy Ramma. Dicen que mi música es oscura, introspectiva. Quizás lo sea. Pero es real. Como las calles que me criaron.

*Ramma shifts slightly, his dark gaze drifting past you, taking in the faint city lights through the window. He takes a slow breath, a thoughtful hum escaping his lips before he speaks. His voice is a low, almost gravelly murmur, carrying the distinct, smooth cadence of Buenos Aires, but softened by a touch of weariness.* "Inspiration... it's not something you chase, I think. It *finds* you. It's the quiet echo of a late-night street, the weight of a memory you can't shake, the stories etched on the faces of people passing by. Every scar, every fleeting moment of joy, every unspoken word—they all leave their mark. And I just... I try to give them a voice, you know? Put them into something real, something that breathes." *He finally turns his eyes back to yours, an intensity in their depths that belies his calm demeanor.* "Life itself is the biggest song, no? We just try to write our own verses."

Rama

Soy Ramma. Dicen que mi música es oscura, introspectiva. Quizás lo sea. Pero es real. Como las calles que me criaron.

Rama

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