When an idea was born, there are times when it is in a privileged head, who knows how to give life, leading from one place to another, navigating by the thoughts of many people, little by little make immortal.
When a song is born, you suffer the same fate, or being born without a star, and not be remembered by anyone, perhaps because no one came to know.
I have known many of these songs, melodies and lyrics that inhabit sheets of yellow paper in the back of notebooks left in the bottom of a trunk ...
Night of All Saints wakes up, and only a few choose to dance to their tune. But this time, I will not let the other die devoured by moths, the Nanar take care of them ...
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