We were preparing a concert.
Elektra is the guitar string we have all tugged in our lives.
Elektra is the voice that has often been absorbed by our inner being.
Elektra is nothing more than our repressed will to do something, our helpless glance from a tram towards a green park.
Elektra is our own mantra of helplessness.
Elektra is the light that shines through the windows of churches at certain hours, flooded with a certain scent of flowers.
Elektra is the walk through a railway you fear to cross without your earphones in your ears.
Elektra is the sound of knocking next door, only to have the door opened by your own life, and not knowing if you will be let in.
Elektra is the meditation app you subscribed to but never opened.
Elektra is your warm bed, next to which you learned to pray with your grandmother.
Elektra is the wind hitting your motorcycle helmet on a highway passing by a rapeseed field.
Elektra is silence from which a gaze begins to sing softly.

Botond Nagy, director