Ther was a man

There was a man at the bus stop
wearing one red shoe.

Not two red shoes.

Just one.

I kept looking at it
like there was supposed to be an explanation.

There wasn't.

The bus was twenty minutes late.

A girl beside me was eating chips
and dropping half of them on the ground.

She didn't care.

I thought,

“That's probably the smartest person here.”

Then the bus came.

Nobody moved.

For like three seconds.

I don't know why.

Maybe we were tired.

Maybe we all forgot
where we were going.


And I thought about you
for absolutely no reason.

That's the thing about memories.

They don't knock.

They just walk in
while you're buying cigarettes
or waiting for a fucking bus.

And suddenly you're twenty years old again,

standing somewhere you don't belong,

thinking you have forever.

I bought a coffee yesterday.

It tasted like shit.

Still drank the whole thing.

The guy behind the counter said,

“Have a good one.”

I said,

“You too.”

Neither of us meant it.

But it was nice anyway.

My phone had three percent battery.

I had twelve euros.

There was a hole in my sock.

I remember thinking,

“Man, I'm really getting my life together.”

And then I started laughing.

Not because it was funny.

Just because...

what else are you supposed to do?


And I thought about you
for absolutely no reason.

Not because I wanted you back.

Not because I miss the way it was.

Just because the street smelled like rain
and for one stupid second
I remembered your hair.

That's how it works, I guess.

You don't lose people all at once.

They disappear slowly.

A little bit every day.

Then one Tuesday morning,

you realize you haven't thought about them
in three weeks.

And somehow...

that hurts too.


There's a crack in my kitchen wall.

I've been meaning to fix it.

Probably been six months.

Every morning I look at it.

Every morning I think,

“Tomorrow.”

I wonder how many things
I've left like that.

Little cracks.

Nothing serious.

Nothing falling down.

Just...

there.

You learn to walk around them.

You stop seeing them.

Until somebody visits
and asks,

“What happened there?”

And you say,

“Nothing.”


Maybe that's what growing up is.

Not fixing everything.

Just learning which things
need fixing,

which things can stay broken,

and which things...

you should finally stop pretending
you don't see.


Anyway.

The man with the red shoe
was on the bus.

He sat in the back.

I don't know where he got off.

I don't know his name.

I don't know why I'm telling you about him.

But I remember him.

That's strange.

You can forget birthdays.

Forget phone numbers.

Forget somebody's voice.

But remember some idiot
you saw for eight minutes
on a Wednesday morning.

Maybe that's all we really are.

A bunch of moments
other people accidentally carry.


So I thought about you
for absolutely no reason.

And this time I didn't fight it.

Didn't call.

Didn't cry.

Didn't make some big fucking speech
about how much I've changed.

I just stood there.

Coffee in my hand.

Rain on the pavement.

People walking past.

And I thought,

“Yeah.

That happened.”

Then I took another sip.

It still tasted like shit.


The crack is still in the wall.

The coffee's still terrible.

The bus is still late.

And tomorrow morning
I'll probably say,

“Fuck it, I'll fix it tomorrow.”

Maybe I will.

Maybe I won't.

Anyway...

I think I'm alright.

I think that's enough.

For today.

Literary indie folk / alternative singer-songwriter, lo-fi indie rock. Intimate male vocal, low-mid register, slightly raspy and conversational. Around 80 BPM, relaxed human groove. Fingerpicked acoustic guitar, warm bass, subtle loose drums, sparse piano, atmospheric electric guitar. Verses should feel almost spoken, like someone telling a strange personal story at 2 AM, with natural pauses and imperfect timing. Choruses become slightly more melodic but remain restrained and emotional. Warm, melancholic, reflective, but not depressing. Gradual dynamic build, then a quiet intimate ending. Prioritize storytelling and natural human delivery over polished pop vocals. No cinematic orchestration, no power-ballad style, no huge drums, no excessive vocal runs, no overly dramatic singing.