The ocean washed us ashore!
The year, 16.
Like driftwood we found ourselves stranded the other day. Stranded in the heart of the capital, where the strange folk dance and jugglers play. So did we. Fixed on silver plates.
To low lands we went, to hills up high, rain upon us and blue, cloudless sky. Gleemen and women of the perpetual town took us amongst them, showed us around.
Until today and tomorrow we refuse to drown!
Are we not all driftwood, and who´s not drifting is dead; Are we not all flotsam? ´til then playing and singing, the roads or the ocean, our bed;
Well, exciting us with brandnew sounds and actions the year has been welcoming us. Offering us grande things. New tunes. An open world.
We dreamed them, we grab them!