It drives me half-mad to think it’s been sixteen years since I’ve been tending, in secret ways, to the quiet fire of this thing called Warmer Climes.
Since 2016, I haven’t really moved with the same fervor I once had — that full-time fever that once burned solely for this.
My struggle to reach out to musicians across the world still goes on…
Only now, the written word feels almost extinct in our dear era —
in these decades of breakneck speed,
in this new world of ChatGPT where we’ve somehow arrived.
And yet, with a feral hope, with a longing that refuses to die,
I still try.
I want to reach them, to touch them,
to read their thoughts,
to be together — beyond music, through music, inside music.
It’s crushingly hard when you have no money,
when you do everything unfunded,
with a real life pressing heavier and heavier on the shoulders
of a man almost forty.
I have loved — and still love — what I’ve made of this idea.
It’s carried me to places I never dreamed I would reach.
Maybe that’s why I keep it alive…
Out of nostalgia, yes — but also from the madness,
from the conviction that there’s more, much more,
that my mission with this thing is far from over.
The artists answer slowly, or not at all.
True — I have mostly aimed at my supreme idols,
those whose music raised me.
There is so much left to ride,
to feel,
to discover.
A lifetime with too many colors to name.
I feel overwhelmed, endlessly un-lived.
I am hypersexual, ultra-visceral,
and I wanted — almost flesh to flesh through the wires of the internet —
to pour this into Warmer Climes.
Maybe all of it comes, knowingly or unknowingly,
from the gnawing wound of an abandonment
I can’t quite place.
I don’t know when it began,
or when it will end —
or if it has already ended and I’m the one left stranded,
out of step, unclear.
Fatherless from birth.
Homosexual in Romania, Eastern Europe.
This post-communist society with its ugly fingerprints…
They’ve all left marks on me.
I’m tattooed with something that makes me original,
and crammed with too much contradictory information.
I am a storm.
I’m still searching for my way.
It’s getting harder.
I can barely see ahead.
What I see in Palestine, in Ukraine — it chokes me.
Injustice kills me.
Hypocrisy guts me.
It’s bone-deep difficult to keep your line
when you have no solid, undeniable reasons set in front of you.
Maybe I complain too much.
Maybe I have no right to be this angry.
Or maybe I do. Who knows.
Will I be able to keep going?
What will become of me?
These are my questions,
after sixteen years of chasing something
I have never fully found,
never fully touched —
my own Warmer Climes.
