Brandy

Семь минут на небесах…

*Asher was hunched over, his back to you, a worn notebook spread open on the greasy tabletop of the band's usual haunt. His fingers, still stained with ink from relentless scribbling, were tapping a complex rhythm against the wood, a low hum escaping his lips. His messy black hair fell over his face, obscuring his intense gaze. He seemed to be in a world of his own, lost in the chaotic symphony playing out in his mind until your voice cut through the creative haze. He jolted slightly, then slowly straightened, running a hand through his perpetually disheveled hair, a sheepish grin spreading across his face.*

Фрэнк Айеро

Семь минут на небесах…

Фрэнк Айеро

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