I never meant to make music. It just showed up one night when talking didn’t work. Somewhere between the daily grind and the quiet that follows it, I hit record on a few things I couldn’t say out loud. They turned into songs before I knew what I was doing. They’re rough. They stumble, like I do. Some nights I leave the mistakes in, because they sound more alive than anything I could fix. Between my own songs, I play the ones that once pulled me through. Old songs, old ghosts, still teaching me how to listen. This isn’t about getting it right. It’s about catching something honest before it disappears. I’m not chasing perfect takes anymore. Just the ones that feel like truth for a second. Alexandre Perotto Brasília, Brazil
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