They call themselves free spirits, dancing minds, sons of Hathor. Often, people stop by the Garage and listen. On rainy days, when the streets are uncrowded, I stand outside their holy tavern for hours, tapping my sneakers to the rhythm of their music-making. Steady beats, fingers snapping, just chillin' for themselves, laughing and talking like they have all the time in the world. The blonde drummer doesn't have much academic talent, but a carefree sense of humor and a handsome smile that can warm your heart anytime. In the corner is the keyboard player with frigid blue eyes, who occasionally cracks an honest smile or two when he's in the mood.
Then, there's Yami… a name too precious for any tongue, a mind too complex for any human. At first glance, he's like any other teenage boy, a lovesick punk, dressed in black leather pants, heeled boots, gold chains and buckles. But when he sings, it's like he's pouring his heart out, how every word is uttered with genuine strength and emotion.