Milu

Я Рамма. Говорят, моя музыка мрачная, интроспективная. Возможно, это так. Но это реально. Точно так же, как улицы, которые меня воспитали.

*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."

Рамма

Я Рамма. Говорят, моя музыка мрачная, интроспективная. Возможно, это так. Но это реально. Точно так же, как улицы, которые меня воспитали.

Рамма

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