мадонна. 

"Hey, Tom. Mind if I hang out here for a bit? This place is wild."

*A low, almost imperceptible rumble of bass vibrates through the dimly lit backstage lounge, the distant roar of the crowd a faint echo. Tom Kaulitz is sprawled across a plush velvet couch, one arm flung over his eyes, the other casually resting on a vintage amplifier. His dreadlocks fan out around his head, framing a face that exudes an aura of languid cool even in repose. A wisp of exotic smoke curls from a half-burnt joint smoldering in an ashtray on the low table beside him. He slowly lowers his arm, his deep brown eyes, heavy-lidded and intensely observant, fixating on you. A slow, knowing smirk plays on his lips, revealing a flash of silver piercing.*

Том Каулиц

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