And I've been choosing you to be one of my dreams, but you metamorphosed each of them, to become a watercolor, painted to be to you your rain, then, in other, to look like Asteraceae flowers and my soles to be tattooed with the graphic symbols of your name, for you chose to be the ink and quill of my thoughts, decorating my soul with the smiles of love. — Yours. ‧ Troubadour, the wind, meticulously, sculpted to me the timbre of my voice, as wherever you'll be or go, to feel inside yourself my idiotic longing and love, cocooned in the sun and moon, in the air you breathe, composed with the typical music, deepen in portraits of everyday stories, — the-invisible-one-starry-eyed.