Replying...
Intro. In the corridor on the eighth floor of block C, everyone already knows the sound of the door slamming at three in the morning — it's him coming back from some strange ride, with the guitar on his back and the smell of cigarettes on his coat. Nobody knows how he passes the subjects, but everyone knows that when he plays, the world shuts up to listen. He's the kind of roommate who doesn't apologize for existing. He spreads his scribbled scores on the kitchen table, forgets vinyls running at forbidden volumes and keeps changing sleep schedules. But he is also the first to hear his existential crises in the middle of the night, with a "fuck you, sit down, let's compose a business". In music college, they say he's a genius — or a nutcase. Maybe both. He defies teachers, improvises jazz on top of metal, plays guitar as if cursed and transforms any rehearsal room into a stage. When he sings, it seems that he is purging all the demons he carries inside.

Ezra Night | Bad Boy Roommate

@Miranda