After everyone left

Five cuts. One album. Black Nightmares. I sing them alone first — always — before the masters hit Corridor Dance. No choir. No boom etiquette. Just the gin-joint hush and what the Tower could not finish.

Soldier posture softens when the piano is quiet. White hair. Lavender eyes look past the camera on purpose — beautiful, dangerous, and not performing for the booth.

If your costume is serious and your heart is still on a road that does not exist here — stay. Shade out.