Even In Winter It Shall Be Green

All The Same It Is Being Said Everywhere That I Played Too Softly, Or Rather, Too Delicately For People Used To The Piano-pounding Of The Artists Here.

Even In Winter It Shall Be Green In My Heart.

I Really Don't Know Whether Any Place Contains More Pianists Than Paris, Or Whether You Can Find More Asses And Virtuosos Anywhere.

As Something Has Involuntarily Crept Into My Head Through My Eyes,i Love To Indulge It, Even Though It May Be All Wrong.

The Earth Is Suffocating... Swear To Make Them Cut Me Open, So That I Won't Be Buried Alive.