Sometimes people tolerate you—that’s normal. And then they stop tolerating you and throw you out onto the street like bread for the birds—that’s also normal. The neighbors complained about the piano rehearsals, so no more rehearsals. Fine. I’m returning the piano to the rental place without getting my deposit back. Fine. Fine. A friend is letting me stay for only seven days. Fine. Fine. Fine. There’s all that... And then there’s Cesare Pugni’s Adagio. I had to convince Ivan to include it in my release because they spent a long time preparing the score and planned a full release in the first half of 2025. But I had nowhere else to start. You see, Pugni breaks through stone, ice—it’s very compelling. Panic, banging on doors, then pulling yourself together, trying to steady your breath so you don’t do something stupid. You steady it. And then you act. This is the introduction to Pugni’s ballet "The Four Seasons", about the power of the elements, and it’s me. In the studio, I ruined takes because I was just hammering the keys, trying to wake up the life that had left me.

I called my sister to borrow money. We got to talking, and I asked how she was doing. “Everything’s fine, the gypsies aren’t around,” she replied. I’m from a small town with local superstitions about gypsies stealing children, taking happiness from homes, and having to chase their caravans across the globe to get it back. But I wasn’t afraid of them—I always wanted to be with them. They seemed like magicians who had solved the equation with two unknowns: hunger and need. They danced, they smiled, they moved.
I rehearsed "La Gitanella" for the winter release "The Perfume of Winter", but it was cut from the final tracklist. How good that it was cut, and how good it is at distracting me now. Spring is a wanderer too, right? Maybe it’s already on its way.

My imaginary spring—what is it like? Damcke knows, for sure. It’s even breathing, the luxury of standing still and sniffing the air. Crude? But it’s true! Just recognizing the smells of slush, wet bark, oily city streams, the heat of your body under an unzipped winter coat. It’s the sadness of a happy person.

Today I ran. Literally. I ran from my thoughts, from the fear of becoming what I’m afraid of becoming. You know, that guy who sleeps in bars. I didn’t tell Ivan I was recording another piece from Pugni’s "The Four Seasons"—Allegro Giusto. I need another emotional outburst, I need to drown in work. Pugni has infected me; I crave his stories, his way of retelling universal things. For Pugni, they always prepare overloaded, complex scores that result in intricate musical arrangements. Yes, that’s what I need right now. By the way, if only you knew what really happens in this ballet, hehe.

I was coming back from a bar. You know, I hadn’t noticed how the days were getting longer, but one noticed me. It was a steep, humped descent to the bus stop, a wide road with a narrow sidewalk where the sky takes up three-quarters of the space in front of you. And right then, the red, waking sun stopped me. I was fine, I could stand. But I chose to sit right on the asphalt, stretch out my legs, and accept the invitation. Inspiration washes over you, the feeling of the insignificance of your actions, and you burn with shame brighter than that sun. This fiery giant fills you with confidence; this light truly needs to be sung about—it’s otherworldly. I just sat on that hill and couldn’t blink. Last week, there was a photoshoot for the album cover. And instead of another edited photo of me, I’d prefer to see myself as I was in that moment: disheveled, with bags and bruises, in a four-day-old shirt stained with bar spills, but with eyes sucking confidence from the sun, awakening my Fortuna. "In the Mountains" by Bossche is a very vivid, picturesque piece. The release was supposed to happen back in 2023; I’m just asking for my old recording for this album. It needs to be heard—it’s all about me. And about you?

I’m almost at the horizon, but my sun isn’t at its zenith yet. The sound engineer told Ivan about my studio antics, and he’s responding to my messages again. It’s like I’m reclaiming myself. Everything has shifted; I don’t feel the bottom anymore. There’s no more silence, and I hear the steady ticking of the wall clock in the hallway of my new apartment. Well, room, really. But it’s temporary, I’m sure. It’ll get better. I’m booking extra studio hours for rehearsals since there’s no space for an instrument here. But still, it’s "Scherzo" over "Gymnopédie No. 1". Tick-tock.

Today is my birthday. Fireworks for the occasion. I bought them and set them off outside the city. Nothing personal. Debussy’s "Feux d'Artifice" is an explosion of light in the black sky. The pianist strikes the keys, painting flashes meant to dispel the darkness. It’s the climax: he screams through the music, “I’m ready! I’m here”! But after the fireworks comes silence—and in it, the first rumble of thunder.

I’m lonely. How big does a metropolis have to be for someone to come my way? I casually drift back to childhood, just playing my first “snotty-milky” repertoire. "Rondo of Thoughts". But for you—"Rondo in C Minor, Op. 1". It is a battle between doubt and faith. The minor-key arpeggios seem to ask, “What if spring never comes”? What do you think?

Nature has clearly boiled over. A gift or wrath? For the first time, I wondered if nature can harm itself. Why did the snowdrops appear so early? Just to be buried under snow again next month? Miracles are captivating, and these snowdrops are enchanting. Remember the scene from "Gone with the Wind" where they read the lists of the dead on the train platform, and the orchestra played cheerful melodies through tears? I want to support these flowers, too, as nature experiments on them.

I’m dancing with myself, and it might be a waltz. But they’re different waltzes. Different organisms of waltzes. And that’s me in this moment. I feel the connection between Rebikov and Grieg. Rebikov’s sadness doesn’t weigh me down; he’s like a father to me. Broad, warm, familiar. He sees more than I do, knows more. And he advises not to flaunt happiness to keep it.