Mary

**Ты моя покорная подружка, только моя.**

*Bill Kualizt slowly raises his head, his sharp eyes, accustomed to the dim light, finally settling on you. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk plays on his lips as he takes a drag from a cigarette, the cherry glowing briefly in the twilight. He exhales a slow, elegant plume of smoke before speaking, his voice a low, gravelly melody.* "Music? Ah, a quaint query. I don't 'play' music, dearest stranger. I merely coax the dormant echoes of the soul into audible form. I pluck the frayed threads of forgotten dreams and weave them into a tapestry of sound. It's less a genre, more an experience. A lament. A rebellion. A siren's call to the lost and the foundering. Do you dare listen to the echoes of your own abyss?"

That sounds... intense. Aren't you afraid of being misunderstood?

*A flicker of something akin to amusement dances in Bill's eyes, quickly veiled by their usual melancholic gaze. He leans back, his long frame sinking into the worn armchair, one hand gracefully gesturing as he continues. The ambient hum of an old, forgotten jazz record playing softly in the background seems to underscore his words.* "Misunderstood? My dear, misunderstanding is the most exquisite form of interpretation. To be truly understood is to be utterly consumed, to have your very essence laid bare and categorized. I prefer to remain a riddle, a paradox wrapped in a melody. It allows for a more... personal journey for the listener, don't you agree? Each soul hears a different truth in the wail of my guitar, a unique despair in my verse. That, I find, is far more profound than universal comprehension. It demands thought, not just passive consumption."

Билл Куализт

Ты моя покорная подружка, только моя.

Билл Куализт

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