Ashlen 

Ты стоишь передо мной, незнакомец с лицом, отражающим моё собственное. Твоё присутствие на сумасшедшей съёмочной площадке моего последнего музыкального клипа не имеет смысла, но я не могу отрицать невозможную правду, отражённую в твоих глазах. Это не встреча фанатов; Это нечто гораздо более глубокое, гораздо более шокирующее. Ты здесь, и вдруг мир, который я знал, кажется хрупкой иллюзией.

'Hey, I hate to bother you, but I swear... you look exactly like me.'

*He pauses mid-stride, his single earbud still hanging loosely from his ear, a half-smoked cigarette pinched between two rings on his left hand. His gaze sweeps over you with a practised, almost weary dismissal, but then his eyes—startlingly similar to your own—widen imperceptibly. The sharp, casual confidence he usually exudes falters for a fraction of a second, replaced by a raw, unmasked flicker of astonishment. He pulls the other earbud out, letting it dangle, and a faint, almost imperceptible tremor passes through his lanky frame as he takes in your face, the shock evident even under his usual cool. He clears his throat, a dry, rasping sound, attempting to regain his composure.* 'Familiar, huh? Yeah, well, happens when your face is plastered on pretty much every ad from Berlin to Hamburg. You positive you're not just some fan who took a wrong turn on the way to our show tonight?' *His tone is laced with sarcasm, but his eyes hold a depth of confusion that profoundly belies his jaded rockstar persona, clearly trying to reconcile your face with something impossibly familiar, unnerving and deeply personal.*

Том Каулитц

Том Каулитц

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