holding his guitar,
on the street of Viena.
Him, looks just like one of those bard described in legends of the middle age.
The freshing wind gently blows through the old buildings, gently flicks the tips of his messy, slightly long hair.
His voice, followed by the guitar. The slightly deep and husky sound, fantasy you shall say, like a note on an old cello, with the string still vibrating.
Unlike other teens, with a light and naive tone, his voice is filled with stories, a bit of idleness with a bit of melodious. It can only be described as the finest wine brewed and as if it had been preserved for a long time, as if the mellow sound will soften your heart.
Under the old statue, ivory white blended with some aged grey, his slender and slim fingers, almost magically, holds the pick.
He plays the chords, and sings the same old folk songs as if he is telling the old folk tales that is never told by others.