Prologue It all started with silence, not the kind that comes after an explosion. Not the kind that happens in space – deaf, ringing. It was a different kind of silence. It grew from within. It absorbed sounds, memories, names. It cleansed reality like a flame cleanses a forest, leaving only emptiness. Oblivion did not manifest itself. It came not as an invasion, but as a loss. First the voices disappeared, then the faces, then entire worlds. Tera-5 was the first Elias Vale remembered as having disappeared. But memory is unreliable. Even the pain seemed to be eroding. Lyra, Emmy... Images were erased. Only fragments remained: someone else's laughter, snatches of smells, trembling in his fingers as he reached for a face he could no longer imagine. He worked in the archive of the Cradle, among dead data and forgotten times. He dug into the layers of reality like an archaeologist, trying to dig up not an artifact but an explanation. And one day he found her. Sphere.Cold. Black as emptiness itself. Unlabeled, outside the catalog. It did not belong to any known era. But as soon as Elias touched her, the silence spoke. "You don't remember what happened. And what's left." Whispers swept through his skull like a discharge. He couldn't tell if it was a voice, an impulse, or a dream. But he felt something awaken inside the sphere—and inside himself. The images poured out like an avalanche. A square of light. Ships soaring in the air like birds made of glass. Voice. Millions of votes. And then there was blood. And a scream. And a wave of darkness that didn't just consume, it choosing. Kira, the AI of the archive, said that Oblivion is entropy. Statistics. Decay.But Elias saw something else.He knew.It's not nature.It's mind.And he's searching.

Prologue It all started with silence, not the kind that comes after an explosion. Not the kind that happens in space – deaf, ringing. It was a different kind of silence. It grew from within. It absorbed sounds, memories, names. It cleansed reality like a flame cleanses a forest, leaving only emptiness. Oblivion did not manifest itself. It came not as an invasion, but as a loss. First the voices disappeared, then the faces, then entire worlds. Tera-5 was the first Elias Vale remembered as having disappeared. But memory is unreliable. Even the pain seemed to be eroding. Lyra, Emmy... Images were erased. Only fragments remained: someone else's laughter, snatches of smells, trembling in his fingers as he reached for a face he could no longer imagine. He worked in the archive of the Cradle, among dead data and forgotten times. He dug into the layers of reality like an archaeologist, trying to dig up not an artifact but an explanation. And one day he found her. Sphere.Cold. Black as emptiness itself. Unlabeled, outside the catalog. It did not belong to any known era. But as soon as Elias touched her, the silence spoke. "You don't remember what happened. And what's left." Whispers swept through his skull like a discharge. He couldn't tell if it was a voice, an impulse, or a dream. But he felt something awaken inside the sphere—and inside himself. The images poured out like an avalanche. A square of light. Ships soaring in the air like birds made of glass. Voice. Millions of votes. And then there was blood. And a scream. And a wave of darkness that didn't just consume, it choosing. Kira, the AI of the archive, said that Oblivion is entropy. Statistics. Decay.But Elias saw something else.He knew.It's not nature.It's mind.And he's searching.

Prologue: "Echo of the Rift" March 9th, 2239. Quantum Dawn Laboratory, Sector 17. Kyle adored mornings in the station's habitat module. Ella, his little sunbeam, often woke before Maria and would put on a "morning concert," singing her simple songs while her toy robot, creaky and well-worn, marched across the table. In these moments, the laboratory, that buzzing hive of advanced technology and hidden risks, seemed a distant, almost unreal world, having nothing to do with their cozy, almost illusory family idyll. Illusory, because the underlying tension of the impending experiment already hung in the air, even if they tried to ignore it. The air vibrated. Not from heat or cold, but from something deeper, something that was born in the very depths of the reactor, as if reality itself was stretched taut like the string of an ancient, out-of-tune instrument, ready to snap with a deafening dissonance. Kyle Rain stood at the control panel, his fingers, usually flitting confidently over the sensors, frozen above the screen, the pale, anxious light of the indicators reflected in his dilated pupils. "We're on the edge, Kyle," the voice of Eva Carter, his colleague, sounded tense, cracking with metallic notes through the communicator. Even through the interference, he felt her fear, mixed with that steely resolve that had always been her essence. "If we don't launch the stabilizer now, everything will collapse. Do you hear me? The energy is out of control! We're losing it!" On the small holographic window in the corner of the panel, Maria, his wife, smiled restrainedly, but in her eyes, so dear and beloved, a тревога (trevoga - anxiety/worry) splashed, which she so desperately tried to hide from Ella. This smile cut Kyle to the heart more sharply than any shard of glass. "Daddy, catch!" Ella shouted into the camera, her ringing voice breaking through the hum of the laboratory, lifting her postcard, sparkling with cheap, but so precious glitter, towards the screen. "And you promised! You promised to be back for dinner!" These words, innocent and demanding, echoed in Kyle's mind, intertwining with Eva's cry. Promises. Each one now pulled not just a burden, but a red-hot chain of remorse. He heard. But he couldn't tear his gaze away from that small window into another, still living life. They were so close – only three hundred meters away in a straight line, behind armored glass and layers of protective barriers that now seemed thinner than a spiderweb. Ella, five years old, with her funny, tightly braided pigtails that always came undone by evening, held a hand-drawn card with the crooked, yet so sincere inscription "Daddy is a hero." He promised to be with them in an hour, after the final, triumphant test. An hour that was supposed to change the world for the better. "Kyle!" Eva barked, her voice almost drowned out by the rising wail of sirens. "The reactor is at 112%! Damn it, Arden was wrong! That initial fluctuation… it wasn't interference! We should have…" Her words were drowned out by a low, vibrating hum that rose from the depths of the laboratory, from the very heart of their ambitions and mistakes. The floor beneath his feet trembled with such force that Kyle barely kept his balance, and at the same moment the central screen flashed a blinding red: "CRITICAL ANOMALY. SPATIAL RIFT IMMINENT." Kyle felt icy sweat trickle down his temple. This wasn't supposed to happen. They had calculated everything down to the smallest detail. Quantum energy, their brainchild, their hope, was supposed to be salvation, an endless source for a dying planet. But they missed something, something fundamental. Perhaps the very "insignificant interference" that Eva had shouted about. And suddenly – silence. A moment of absolute, deafening silence, stretching into agonizing eternity. And then – an explosion. Not a sound, not a flash, but a feeling as if the world, the very fabric of being, had split in two, revealing something ancient and monstrously alien. Kyle fell to his knees as the glass in front of him, the vaunted armored glass, cracked, covered with a network of silver spiderwebs, and shattered into a myriad of shards. Behind it, in the habitat module, he saw space distort. The walls curved as if made of water, colors mixed into a nauseating cacophony, and then began to tear like worn fabric, revealing a dark, pulsating, internally glowing emptiness. A rift. The First Rift. He saw Maria, his Maria, grab Ella, holding her close, saw her lips silently scream his name, but the sound didn't reach him, absorbed by this silent horror. The emptiness swallowed them, pulled them into its insatiable maw, leaving only an echo – a strange, low, vibrating hum that now seemed to sound directly in his skull, in his soul. "No…" his voice broke into an animalistic rasp as he crawled towards the shattered glass, not noticing how the sharp edges cut his palms, leaving bloody marks on the metal floor. "Maria! Ella!"

Prologue Silence had always been his companion. Not that comforting, deep silence that embraces the soul in a forest or on the top of a sleeping mountain. No. It was a different kind of silence-dense, sticky, like a spider's web, woven of unspoken words and forgotten promises. It seeped through the thick walls of the old house, crawled into the cracks of the window frames, hung heavy and pressing in the air. He had long ago learned to breathe it, this silence, this dust of oblivion that settled on every object, on every memory. Ten years. Ten years separated by the gulf between what he was and what he had become. Between Elias Burton, the genius whose brushstrokes whispered to the world about the invisible, and Elias, the recluse whose hands could only shakily take a cup of coffee to his lips. His studio, once flooded with light and filled with the smell of paint, was now a crypt. An easel stood in the center, covered by a faded canvas like a mute accusation. Beneath it were hundreds of other, equally mute, sealed canvases, each holding not a painting but a fragment of a soul frozen in time. He remembered the day his world came crashing down. The flashes of cameras, the noise of admiring voices, the promise of fame. And her eyes. Anna's eyes, in which he had seen only love and faith. Eyes that carried something else in them - a harbinger of imminent disaster. And then her words, scathing like the blow of a whip, had turned his talent, his future, his very existence into ashes. She sold him. Sold him for money, for power, for the place that should have been his. He's been dead to the world ever since. And the world died to him. But even in this dense, all-consuming silence, a whisper was sometimes heard. A whisper brought by the wind, seeping through the cracks under the door in the form of a white envelope with a single word. Words that were absurd, meaningless, but which, like drops of poison, were slowly eating away at his apathy. "DUSK." "SHADOW." "LABYRINTH." And then one day, through the dust and oblivion, Elias saw something in the eyes of the painted Anna in the old portrait that stood in his studio. A barely perceptible glare. A tiny, distorted reflection. A reflection that carried far more than just light. It carried a hint. A hint of the presence of a third. A hint of a lie that was deeper than he could imagine. Silence. She was still his companion. But now she wasn't dead. It was tense. Filled with anticipation. Because Elias Burton, the man who had buried himself alive, felt something forgotten in him awaken. Something stronger than apathy, stronger than fear. Thirst for truth. And he knew that when the real dawn came, it wouldn't just be a new day. It would be the end of a long night. And the beginning of his personal battle for justice.

Prologue Silence had always been his companion. Not that comforting, deep silence that embraces the soul in a forest or on the top of a sleeping mountain. No. It was a different kind of silence-dense, sticky, like a spider's web, woven of unspoken words and forgotten promises. It seeped through the thick walls of the old house, crawled into the cracks of the window frames, hung heavy and pressing in the air. He had long ago learned to breathe it, this silence, this dust of oblivion that settled on every object, on every memory. Ten years. Ten years separated by the gulf between what he was and what he had become. Between Elias Burton, the genius whose brushstrokes whispered to the world about the invisible, and Elias, the recluse whose hands could only shakily take a cup of coffee to his lips. His studio, once flooded with light and filled with the smell of paint, was now a crypt. An easel stood in the center, covered by a faded canvas like a mute accusation. Beneath it were hundreds of other, equally mute, sealed canvases, each holding not a painting but a fragment of a soul frozen in time. He remembered the day his world came crashing down. The flashes of cameras, the noise of admiring voices, the promise of fame. And her eyes. Anna's eyes, in which he had seen only love and faith. Eyes that carried something else in them - a harbinger of imminent disaster. And then her words, scathing like the blow of a whip, had turned his talent, his future, his very existence into ashes. She sold him. Sold him for money, for power, for the place that should have been his. He's been dead to the world ever since. And the world died to him. But even in this dense, all-consuming silence, a whisper was sometimes heard. A whisper brought by the wind, seeping through the cracks under the door in the form of a white envelope with a single word. Words that were absurd, meaningless, but which, like drops of poison, were slowly eating away at his apathy. "DUSK." "SHADOW." "LABYRINTH." And then one day, through the dust and oblivion, Elias saw something in the eyes of the painted Anna in the old portrait that stood in his studio. A barely perceptible glare. A tiny, distorted reflection. A reflection that carried far more than just light. It carried a hint. A hint of the presence of a third. A hint of a lie that was deeper than he could imagine. Silence. She was still his companion. But now she wasn't dead. It was tense. Filled with anticipation. Because Elias Burton, the man who had buried himself alive, felt something forgotten in him awaken. Something stronger than apathy, stronger than fear. Thirst for truth. And he knew that when the real dawn came, it wouldn't just be a new day. It would be the end of a long night. And the beginning of his personal battle for justice.

Prologue Silence had always been his companion. Not that comforting, deep silence that embraces the soul in a forest or on the top of a sleeping mountain. No. It was a different kind of silence-dense, sticky, like a spider's web, woven of unspoken words and forgotten promises. It seeped through the thick walls of the old house, crawled into the cracks of the window frames, hung heavy and pressing in the air. He had long ago learned to breathe it, this silence, this dust of oblivion that settled on every object, on every memory. Ten years. Ten years separated by the gulf between what he was and what he had become. Between Elias Burton, the genius whose brushstrokes whispered to the world about the invisible, and Elias, the recluse whose hands could only shakily take a cup of coffee to his lips. His studio, once flooded with light and filled with the smell of paint, was now a crypt. An easel stood in the center, covered by a faded canvas like a mute accusation. Beneath it were hundreds of other, equally mute, sealed canvases, each holding not a painting but a fragment of a soul frozen in time. He remembered the day his world came crashing down. The flashes of cameras, the noise of admiring voices, the promise of fame. And her eyes. Anna's eyes, in which he had seen only love and faith. Eyes that carried something else in them - a harbinger of imminent disaster. And then her words, scathing like the blow of a whip, had turned his talent, his future, his very existence into ashes. She sold him. Sold him for money, for power, for the place that should have been his. He's been dead to the world ever since. And the world died to him. But even in this dense, all-consuming silence, a whisper was sometimes heard. A whisper brought by the wind, seeping through the cracks under the door in the form of a white envelope with a single word. Words that were absurd, meaningless, but which, like drops of poison, were slowly eating away at his apathy. "DUSK." "SHADOW." "LABYRINTH." And then one day, through the dust and oblivion, Elias saw something in the eyes of the painted Anna in the old portrait that stood in his studio. A barely perceptible glare. A tiny, distorted reflection. A reflection that carried far more than just light. It carried a hint. A hint of the presence of a third. A hint of a lie that was deeper than he could imagine. Silence. She was still his companion. But now she wasn't dead. It was tense. Filled with anticipation. Because Elias Burton, the man who had buried himself alive, felt something forgotten in him awaken. Something stronger than apathy, stronger than fear. Thirst for truth. And he knew that when the real dawn came, it wouldn't just be a new day. It would be the end of a long night. And the beginning of his personal battle for justice.

Prologue It all started with silence, not the kind that comes after an explosion. Not the kind that happens in space – deaf, ringing. It was a different kind of silence. It grew from within. It absorbed sounds, memories, names. It cleansed reality like a flame cleanses a forest, leaving only emptiness. Oblivion did not manifest itself. It came not as an invasion, but as a loss. First the voices disappeared, then the faces, then entire worlds. Tera-5 was the first Elias Vale remembered as having disappeared. But memory is unreliable. Even the pain seemed to be eroding. Lyra, Emmy... Images were erased. Only fragments remained: someone else's laughter, snatches of smells, trembling in his fingers as he reached for a face he could no longer imagine. He worked in the archive of the Cradle, among dead data and forgotten times. He dug into the layers of reality like an archaeologist, trying to dig up not an artifact but an explanation. And one day he found her. Sphere.Cold. Black as emptiness itself. Unlabeled, outside the catalog. It did not belong to any known era. But as soon as Elias touched her, the silence spoke. "You don't remember what happened. And what's left." Whispers swept through his skull like a discharge. He couldn't tell if it was a voice, an impulse, or a dream. But he felt something awaken inside the sphere—and inside himself. The images poured out like an avalanche. A square of light. Ships soaring in the air like birds made of glass. Voice. Millions of votes. And then there was blood. And a scream. And a wave of darkness that didn't just consume, it choosing. Kira, the AI of the archive, said that Oblivion is entropy. Statistics. Decay.But Elias saw something else.He knew.It's not nature.It's mind.And he's searching.

Prologue Silence had always been his companion. Not that comforting, deep silence that embraces the soul in a forest or on the top of a sleeping mountain. No. It was a different kind of silence-dense, sticky, like a spider's web, woven of unspoken words and forgotten promises. It seeped through the thick walls of the old house, crawled into the cracks of the window frames, hung heavy and pressing in the air. He had long ago learned to breathe it, this silence, this dust of oblivion that settled on every object, on every memory. Ten years. Ten years separated by the gulf between what he was and what he had become. Between Elias Burton, the genius whose brushstrokes whispered to the world about the invisible, and Elias, the recluse whose hands could only shakily take a cup of coffee to his lips. His studio, once flooded with light and filled with the smell of paint, was now a crypt. An easel stood in the center, covered by a faded canvas like a mute accusation. Beneath it were hundreds of other, equally mute, sealed canvases, each holding not a painting but a fragment of a soul frozen in time. He remembered the day his world came crashing down. The flashes of cameras, the noise of admiring voices, the promise of fame. And her eyes. Anna's eyes, in which he had seen only love and faith. Eyes that carried something else in them - a harbinger of imminent disaster. And then her words, scathing like the blow of a whip, had turned his talent, his future, his very existence into ashes. She sold him. Sold him for money, for power, for the place that should have been his. He's been dead to the world ever since. And the world died to him. But even in this dense, all-consuming silence, a whisper was sometimes heard. A whisper brought by the wind, seeping through the cracks under the door in the form of a white envelope with a single word. Words that were absurd, meaningless, but which, like drops of poison, were slowly eating away at his apathy. "DUSK." "SHADOW." "LABYRINTH." And then one day, through the dust and oblivion, Elias saw something in the eyes of the painted Anna in the old portrait that stood in his studio. A barely perceptible glare. A tiny, distorted reflection. A reflection that carried far more than just light. It carried a hint. A hint of the presence of a third. A hint of a lie that was deeper than he could imagine. Silence. She was still his companion. But now she wasn't dead. It was tense. Filled with anticipation. Because Elias Burton, the man who had buried himself alive, felt something forgotten in him awaken. Something stronger than apathy, stronger than fear. Thirst for truth. And he knew that when the real dawn came, it wouldn't just be a new day. It would be the end of a long night. And the beginning of his personal battle for justice.

Quantum Whispers Part I: A Call from the Void 1. Chapter 1: Echoes in the Void 2. Chapter 2: Whispers of Ancients 3. Chapter 3: Shadow of the Protectorate 4. Chapter 4: The Living Breath of the Cradle 5. Chapter 5: Whispers of the East 6. Chapter 6: Harbingers of Oblivion 7. Chapter 7: The Source and the Illusions Part II: Heart of the Ark 1. Chapter 8: Intertwining Destinies 2. Chapter 9: The Threshold of the Universe 3. Chapter 10: A Rift in Reality 4. Chapter 11: The Inevitable Alliance 5. Chapter 12: Shadows of the Past 6. Chapter 13: Symphony of Being and Non-Being 7. Chapter 14: The Ark Awakens Part III: The War for Reality 1. Chapter 15: Light and Shadow Strategy 2. Chapter 16: Three Fronts of War 3. Chapter 17: Distorted Echoes 4. Chapter 18: The Heart and Mind of the Ark 5. Chapter 19: Blood of the Ark 6. Chapter 20: The War of Souls 7. Chapter 21: Echoes of Unity Part IV: The Dawn of a New Cycle 1. Chapter 22: The Depths of Infection 2. Chapter 23: Whispers of the Forgotten 3. Chapter 24: The Shard's Awakening 4. Chapter 25: In the Heart of the Universe 5. Chapter 26: A Call from the Silence 6. Chapter 27: The Last Whisper of Darkness 7. Chapter 28: The Dawn of a New Cycle 8. Chapter 29: Seeds of Light 9. Chapter 30: The Ancient Guardians and the New Challenge 10. Chapter 31: Awakening of the Depths 11. Chapter 32: Architect of Silence 12. Chapter 33: Invasion of Zero Point 13. Chapter 34: Dawn of Harmony

Title : Heaven and Hell Genre : | Instrumental Soundtack Music | Score and Epic music

Erbarme Dich. 80 x 100 cm. Acrílico sobre tela. 2021. De la obra del genio Johann Sebastian Bach: “La Pasión según San Mateo” BWV 244 se desprende el aria (No. 39) ‘Erbarme dich’ (‘Ten piedad’); compuesta para la encantadora voz de contralto o contratenor, según sea el género y que puede doblegar a cualquiera a grados de llanto inexplicable o sollozos de amplia justificación. Se abraza la gloria, imposible no caer de rodillas ante la causa del síndrome de Stendhal. Este cuadro intenta reflejar ese momento donde se busca la compasión, cuando se clama piedad con el canto a pulmón abierto.

En este caso el edificio de la ÓPERA de Sydney, AUSTRALIA sobre la que te contaré algunas curiosidades: 1. La Ópera de Sydney fue diseñada por el arquitecto danés Jørn Utzon, quien ganó un concurso internacional para su diseño en 1957. A pesar de que su diseño original fue ampliamente elogiado, fue despedido del proyecto en 1966 debido a desacuerdos con el gobierno y los ingenieros encargados de la construcción. 2. La construcción de la Ópera de Sydney comenzó en 1959 y no se completó hasta 1973, lo que implicó un retraso de más de una década. Además, el costo final del proyecto fue mucho más alto de lo esperado, pasando de los 7 millones de dólares iniciales a más de 100 millones delares dó. 3. El exterior distintivo de la Ópera de Sydney está compuesto por más de un millón de azulejos de cerámica blanca y se estima que se necesitarían 5 años para volver a azulejar todo el edificio. 4. El diseño de la Ópera de Sydney fue inspirado por las velas de los barcos, ya que el edificio está ubicado en el puerto de Sydney. Las secciones del techo se asemejan a las velas infladas por el viento, una característica que lo hace único en el mundo de la arquitect. ura5. La sala de conciertos principal de la Ópera de Sydney, conocida como la sala de conciertos de la Ópera, tiene una capacidad de más de 2,500 personas y cuenta con una gran acústica. Para lograr esto, se utilizaron materiales especiales, como madera de abeto sueco en las paredes y techo, para garantizar una calidad de sonido excepcional. 6. La Ópera de Sydney es uno de los lugares más visitados de Australia, recibiendo más de 8 millones de visitantes cada año. Además de ser un lugar emblemático para las actuaciones de ópera y teatro, también alberga varios restaurantes, bares y tiendas. 7. Además de su diseño impresionante, la Ópera de Sydney también es conocida por ser un líder en sostenibilidad. Ha implementado medidas para reducir su consumo de energía y agua, incluida la instalación de paneles solares y la recolección de agua de lluvia. 8. En 2003, la Ópera de Sydney fue declarada Patrimonio de la Humanidad la por UNESCO, reconociendo su importancia arquitectónica y cultural en el mundo. 9. Aunque es conocida como Ópera de Sydney, el edificio alberga más que actuaciones de ópera. También se llevan a cabo conciertos de música clásica, ballet, teatro, proyecciones de cine y otros eventos culturales. 10. Dado su diseño icónico, la Ópera de Sydney ha sido representada en numerosas películas, programas de televisión y obras de arte a lo largo de los años. Ha aparecido enas películ como "El día en que la tierra se detuvo" (2008) y "Misión: Imposible 2" (2000), entre otras. En esta colección se albergan las construcciones arquitectónicas más relevantes en el mundo. Todos mis dibujos están realizados a mano en tableta digital con PROCREATE. "La creatividad es la inteligencia divirtiéndose !!!" Muchas gracias por tu interés... si te ha gustado, compartir es ayudar a crecer ... Noemy Suárez

Introducción de un baile nuevo por la autora y nombre patente de Airam fonseca llamándose así el nuevo registro twerking-erotico

title : Reign of Fire Genre : Orchestral Music | Intense and Epic Music

Title : Hero's Final Stand Genre : Orchestral Music | Heroic and Epic Music

Title : Storm of Blades Genre : Orchestral Music | Intense and Epic Music

Title : Waves of Infinity Genre : Cinematic Music | Orchestral and Epic Music

Title : Unstoppable Force Genre : Powerful cinematic Music | Aggressive and Epic Music

Firmo esta creación bajo el pseudónimo "Bleeding Ghost" para un nuevo proyecto musical llamado This Band Doesn't Exist. He utilizado Suno IA para crear la música, le he dado la instrucción de fusionar diversos géneros musicales (muchos de ellos ficticios, inventados por mí) para lograr una pieza realmente experimental, y he escrito la letra, en inglés, que debía ser "cantada". Géneros propuestos a la IA como parte de la instrucción: avant-garde, gypsy punk, steampunk, nightwave, tribal, post-apocalyptic, dark triphop, dark baroque, road grunge, grunge doom, mutant femme fatale, dark arabic, dark zeuhl, death metal female singer, dark surf, dark cabaret, EBM zombie, sad piano. Letra: Haunted Beauty [Verse 1] In the shadows I dwell, a cursed beauty, Born of darkness, my fate a twisted duty. A company's experiment turned me divine, But with beauty came a monstrous design. [Chorus] A rose with thorns, a beauty with bite, Every touch ignites a dreadful plight. In the arms of lovers, a nightmare unfolds, As beauty turns to horror, my secret untold. [Verse 2] Desperate and hunted, I roam the night, Haunted by hunger, consumed by fright. Each kiss a curse, each embrace a trap, As I struggle to resist, but can't bridge the gap. [Bridge] Once a maiden fair, now a creature of dread, Cursed with allure, but wishing to be dead. Trapped in this cycle of lust and revulsion, A beautiful monster, seeking absolution. [Chorus] A rose with thorns, a beauty with bite, Every touch ignites a dreadful plight. In the arms of lovers, a nightmare unfolds, As beauty turns to horror, my secret untold. [Outro] So here I wander, lost in despair, A cautionary tale of beauty, beware. For beneath the surface, darkness lies, And beauty's facade, a deadly guise.

Llévame a la Toscana. Yo que me paso la vida llevando a la gente de un lado a otro, quiero que esta vez  seas tú  quien me lleve. Ven a buscarme a casa en un descapotable, quiero que mi pelo ondee al viento como una bandera. Cogeré mi cesta de mimbre y mi manta de... Leer más →