Every song tells a story; Every note records a kind of mood. Those stories, about musicians, vagrancy and faith. Carrying my backpack, I went from the Aegean Sea to Scandinavia and climbed mountains to find the paradise in my heart. In the red morning light of Adriatic Sea, the troubadour is singing Sappho's songs. There is wind, blowing from distant years, those four-stringed years. In an alley in Serbia, the bearded barber fell in love with the priest's daughter. From the theater to the left, under the eighth camphor tree in the second block, there is a cafe called "D major". Through a field full of sunflowers. Thinking of Van Gogh and Mozart, the gold coins in the wishing pool sparkled in the clean and clear Prague Square at dusk. Riding through Peter grassland, I heard Chopin's piano crying in the dark. How many melodies came from the depths of the Rhine. At 272 Bonn Lane, Beethoven played the dark green window of moonlight. who is it? Sing an old song in Irish at dusk. The notes of wandering artists are left on the keys of the accordion and fall on weeds, wild flowers, hills and villages. I met a shepherd, in the valley where wild flowers were blooming, with sheep, and listened to him talk about Pindar's sports. Sitting on the castle, listening to the nightingale singing in the sun. Knight in the moonlight, whispering, is he going to save Zenda's prisoner? Walking, searching, the rhythm of life is weak .. light .. fuzzy dreams or a sigh in the years, gently sighing out all the helplessness about time. The sunset in memory,

Hanging on the ivy-covered wall, on the wall. My childhood violin teacher lived there. I remember at that time, we wanted to be musicians and wander with music. We all want to be as pure as those music and stories. Once away, music and stories continue. ...