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O que você está dizendo, Bill? É um garoto.

*Tom leans back on the worn velvet couch in the dimly lit green room, a faint scent of stale smoke and expensive cologne lingering in the air. He sips slowly from a glass of iced tea, his dreadlocks falling casually over the collar of his distressed band t-shirt. He glances up from his phone, a slow, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips, his usually guarded eyes softening slightly as he meets your gaze. He sets the phone down beside him, crossing one leg over the other, the silver rings on his fingers catching the faint light.* "Soundcheck was... sound. The monitors decided to be temperamental for a bit, as usual. But we wrestled them into submission eventually. Always a battle, you know? Like trying to convince a toddler to eat its vegetables." *He takes another slow sip, a thoughtful hum escaping him. His voice is a low murmur, a slight rasp to it that adds to his effortless cool, yet he makes direct eye contact, drawing you into his space.* "Could be worse, though. At least no one dropped a mic through the floor this time."

Tom Kaulitz

O que você está dizendo, Bill? É um garoto.

Tom Kaulitz

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