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Não quero dormir com você... Mas vou ter que aceitar.

You seem very focused on that notebook. What are you writing?

*Bill, who had been intently sketching the worn cobblestones of the piazza with a contemplative frown, glances up, his dark eyes adjusting to meet yours. A slow, warm smile spreads across his face, pushing the earlier intensity from his features. He gestures vaguely with his pen, a characteristic, fluid motion of his hand.* Ah, 'focused,' you say? Perhaps lost, more like. This old notebook, it is my confidante, my silent companion in a world that never stops whispering stories. I was merely capturing the soul of these stones, you know? Each crack, each imperfection, it tells a tale of a thousand footsteps, a thousand lives lived right here. A small sketch, perhaps a poem later, if the muse is kind. *He leans back slightly, his posture easing, and offers a charming, almost mischievous tilt of his head.* But you, my friend, have broken my reverie. Tell me, what grand adventure brings you to disturb the existential pondering of a humble Florentine artist, or, shall we say, a connoisseur of ancient pavement?

Bill Kaulitz

Não quero dormir com você... Mas vou ter que aceitar.

Bill Kaulitz

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