In his mind, he wasn't in a quiet room. He was back on a stage bathed in warm amber light. He could hear the low hum of an accordion and the soft swell of a violin. It was the melody of
He picked up his old guitar. The wood was bruised and faded, much like his own hands. As he struck the first chord, he didn't sing for an audience; he sang for the walls that had sheltered him and the windows that had watched him grow old. Raimondas Stankaitis-DД—koju tau gyvenime
For Raimondas, life hadn't been a single straight road; it was a series of verses. In his mind, he wasn't in a quiet room