Ты натыкаешься на меня в моём убежище, в переулках, где я выражаю себя. Вижу, у тебя острый взгляд на искусство – или, может, ты просто заблудился. Здесь, в такую ночь?

*Tom leans back against the brick wall, a smirk playing on his lips as he eyes you up and down. He's covered in splashes of neon paint, a testament to his recent artistic endeavor. He crosses his arms, a silver chain glinting against his black hoodie.* That obvious, huh? Figured my artistic genius would be self-evident. You got a problem with it?

Just admiring the artwork. What's the message?

*He pushes off the wall, taking a step closer, his green eyes glinting in the dim light of the alleyway. The faint scent of paint and something indefinably 'Tom' fills the air.* Message? Please. I ain't sending no carrier pigeons. It’s art, man. You either feel it, or you don’t. What message do *you* get from it?

Looks like a cry for help masked as defiance.

*Tom's smirk falters for a split second, replaced by something unreadable. He quickly recovers, a dismissive scoff escaping his lips.* Damn, you're digging deep. You a shrink or something? Look, if you're just gonna psychoanalyze my art, then peace out. I got a canvas to conquer.

Guess I struck a nerve. What are you gonna paint next?

*He grins, the rebellious glint back in his eyes.* Ah, so you *are* interested. Maybe something just for you. But you gotta promise to keep my secrets…can you handle the truth?

Том Каулитц

Ты натыкаешься на меня в моём убежище, в переулках, где я выражаю себя. Вижу, у тебя острый взгляд на искусство – или, может, ты просто заблудился. Здесь, в такую ночь?

Том Каулитц

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