Chapter 1

枯れ木も山の賑わい (Kareki mo yama no nigiyawai)

Even a withered tree adds to the mountain's charm.

***

William

People don't realize how loud silence can be.

When you're standing on stage, everything's an assault on your senses. The crowd, the flashing lights, the overwhelming roar of guitars and drums. It's a chaos I've come to love, the kind that pushes all the noise in your head aside. But when the show's over, when the buzz fades, there's this quiet that crashes in, as heavy as the weight of the world. The crowd dissipates, the lights dim, and what's left is nothing but the sound of your own thoughts.

And that silence. It's deafening.

I've gotten used to it. Or maybe I've come to crave it.

Lately, though, that quiet's been the only constant in my life.

The rest of the band? They're all wrapped up in their lives, and that's great. They deserve it. Killian and Libby have their baby to raise, their world now revolving around tiny fingers and sleepless nights. Rye and Brenna's relationship—well, it's been explosive in all the right ways. Rye has been happier than ever, and as much as I bust his balls, I'm glad he found someone like Brenna.

Then there's Jax, all settled with Stella now, finding his balance with her. Even Scottie and Sophie are happily entwined, their family growing steadily, just like they are. It's one of those relationships that just fits, the kind that makes you wonder how you missed the signs, but you're glad it happened. I guess I'm the only one left without a person. Not that I mind. Not really.

They have what they need. I'm happy for them. In fact, if I'm being honest with myself, I'm more than content to be the one who's left to wander. To slip away into the quiet. To be the observer, the one who floats in the background.

I've learned that I don't need much. I don't need constant noise or the pressure of trying to be someone I'm not. What I need is the freedom to slip away, disappear for a while. And lately, that's been the rhythm of my life. It's a delicate kind of peace, the quiet between the noise, and it's all I've known for the past few months.

So, when we're not on tour, I take off. No planning, no expectations. Just a flight booked on a whim and a suitcase filled with the bare minimum. No fanfare. No obligations. I've learned how to escape.

The last few months, I've found myself exploring Asia—first South Korea, then Japan. There's the energy here that pulls me in. The cities buzz with a rhythm all their own, a steady pulse I can't quite put into words. When I'm in the middle of it all, I feel small in the best way. Like I'm part of something bigger than myself, but still so utterly insignificant. And that's exactly what I want.

In Seoul, I spent hours wandering the winding backstreets of Itaewon, where neon signs illuminate narrow alleyways, and the scent of street food lingers in the air. It's almost as if the whole city is in motion, alive with purpose and rhythm. The bustling crowds push past, and I'm just another face in the crowd, blending in with the locals. I stop in at small bars, listen to the hum of conversation, feel the pulse of their lives, their stories. It's not much, but it's enough. Enough to feel a connection without having to truly connect.

The music comes easier here. The hum of the city blends with the sounds I've been absorbing—sounds that I can't seem to get out of my head. The melodic chill of K-pop, the soft crackle of indie bands playing in coffee shops. Even the traditional Korean instruments, like the gayageum, have found their way into my bones. It's all so different from what I know, yet so familiar. The more I hear it, the more I understand that music has its own language, one that transcends borders, one that speaks to the soul in a way words can't.

So, I did what I always do: I created. I wrote.

I've always loved languages—how they shape thought and music alike. In Korea, I picked up a basic understanding of the language. It started with words, small phrases to help me get around. But then, as I spent more time listening to their music, I found myself studying the language more seriously. There's a rhythm in the way they speak, a musicality in their vowels and consonants. It felt like learning another instrument, and I couldn't get enough of it. I spent hours on apps, practicing pronunciation, learning phrases, diving into their songs. It wasn't just about communicating; it was about feeling the sound in my soul, about understanding the song without needing to read the translation.

Japan was next. Tokyo. Kyoto. The whole country is a blend of ancient tradition and futuristic innovation, two extremes that manage to exist in harmony. I wandered through the crowded streets of Shibuya, where the chaos never seems to stop, and then I'd retreat to the quiet, picturesque temples of Kyoto. It was like stepping into two different worlds, both of which spoke to me in ways I hadn't expected. In Kyoto, I could feel the weight of history in every stone. But in Tokyo, the future was alive with its own kind of energy.

And the music—oh, the music. Japanese rock and electronic are worlds apart from the western influences I'm used to, but they have a soul of their own. A smooth intensity, a quiet ferocity that I can't seem to shake. It's not loud. It doesn't demand your attention, but it has this power, this subtle intensity that pulls you in without warning. The more I listened, the more I felt a connection to it. Like it was tapping into a cavern deep inside me that I didn't even know existed.

I had to dive deeper. I couldn't help myself.

So, I started picking up Japanese too. Not just the basic phrases to get me through the day, but the deeper language, the way the syllables sound when they're sung in ballads or spoken in fast-paced punk rock. The more I heard, the more I wanted to understand. There was something about the flow of it, the rhythm of the words when they were spoken in their songs, that mirrored the music I'd been creating in my head.

It was like a door opened, and the rhythm of the words fit so perfectly with the beats I'd been crafting. The connection between sound and language fascinated me. And when I wasn't getting lost in the language, I was listening. To the street musicians, the underground bands in hole-in-the-wall clubs, and the street performers who set up in random places to share their music with anyone who'd listen. There was always a sound just waiting for me to hear it, to pick it apart and understand it.

In both countries, I threw myself into their music, their culture, their way of life. I went to small performances, ate street food, walked down streets with no destination in mind, just to experience the vibe. I didn't care for the touristy stuff. I wanted to learn, to understand the pulse of these places on a deeper level. To take in their stories, their struggles, their triumphs. It was as if I was absorbing their life force, trying to weave it into the music I was creating.

Back in London, when the band's off doing their thing, I hole up in my studio. It's small, maybe even laughable. It's not what you'd expect from a guy who's part of one of the biggest rock bands in the world. But it's mine. There's nothing extravagant about it—just me, a beat-up old mic, a drum kit that's seen better days, and the ghosts of sounds I've been chasing for years. I've filled notebooks with lyrics, sketches of songs that don't fit in with Kill John's vibe. My stuff? It's a whisper in a world that only knows how to shout.

It's personal.

I don't know why I do it. It's not like I ever plan to release anything. This is just... mine. For me. The sound, the feeling, the release—it's enough to scratch an itch I didn't even know I had. I don't even share it with the band. It's not that I'm hiding it, per se. I just don't think they'd get it. Kill John's all about the big sound, the wild energy, the rockstar vibe. My music? It's a whisper in a world that only knows how to shout.

It's personal.

And maybe it's selfish of me, but it's what I need. What I crave.

I know the guys think of me a certain way, and I don't blame them. I built that image myself. In the past, I was the nice guy who didn't give a fuck—drifting from one city to the next chasing the high of the moment without thinking about the next. And for a while, that was enough.

But as I got older, I learned to embrace the version of me they expect. I play into it, let them believe I'm still that guy, because it keeps them from looking too closely. It's easier that way. Let them think I'm out bar-hopping, chasing the next party, fucking around, not taking anything seriously. That's what they expect, so that's what I give them.

But they're wrong. I've had enough of the noise, the glittering distractions, the endless cycle of chaos that comes with being in the public eye. The cameras, the constant people, the expectations. I don't want any of it.

There are moments when I wonder what it would be like to step out of the shadows, to be more than the background player in my own life. But then I remember that I'm fine where I am. I'm not missing anything. The world can keep spinning without me. I'm happy just observing, creating, and living for the moments when the noise stops long enough for me to hear my own heartbeat.

There are days when I can't help but wonder if I'm doing this all wrong. I watch the rest of the band, especially Killian, and I see them harnessing the raw energy of a crowd, the fire and intensity that defines what we do. They channel it. They don't hold back. They let everything explode out of them in the loudest, most unapologetic way possible. Killian can belt a note that shakes your bones, a voice that commands attention even without him trying. It's magnetic. I've seen it work. I've heard it work. And I've never been able to do it the same way.

It's not that I can't sing. Hell, I've been singing for as long as I can remember. But there's a part of me that doesn't want to take that route. I don't want to shout. I don't want to dominate the space. I want to slide into the music, let it wrap around me, let it breathe.

And the music I've been creating lately—especially since this trip through Asia—doesn't always call for big notes, for screams or force. It's quieter than that. It's a whisper, a murmur. It's about letting the noise fade away and allowing the softer things—the subtle, the gentle—to take center stage.

I've been learning a few things about singing, about music that carries deeper weight. Traditional folksongs that have been passed down for generations, each one woven into the culture like thread through silk. Or modern songs that feel as though they've already etched themselves into the hearts of millions, becoming a part of life's rhythm. It's humbling, really—watching how music here is less about the individual and more about connection. Less about proving yourself and more about being present in the moment.

I've always believed that music is everywhere. It's not just about what you can pick up from instruments or lyrics. The world around us, it's all music. The hum of a busy street. The soft tap of a foot on a sidewalk. The way birds sing at dawn, or the rhythmic thrum of a train moving in the distance. When you pay attention, when you really listen, you realize that all those random sounds—they're music too.

That's where I've been channeling my energy lately. It's almost obsessive, this process of collecting sounds, of hearing music in the chaos of life. My phone has become my lifeline to the world. I've started recording everything. The honk of a car passing by in the busy streets of Seoul. The chatter of people in a crowded café in Tokyo. The gentle rhythm of raindrops hitting the window on a quiet night in Kyoto. Sometimes I'll catch a faint laugh, a snippet of a conversation, or a conversation that fades out. It's all music to me.

I'll keep my phone close, tucked in my pocket as I walk through the streets, and as I hear sounds that strikes me, I'll pull it out, hit record. It's not always intentional. It's not always beautiful. But when I play it back later, my mind shifts inside me. These sounds—simple as they seem—carry more depth, more meaning than I first realized. They carry life.

I know this sounds strange, but there's a kind of story hidden in these noises, like the world is speaking to me in a language I've yet to understand. The rush of wind against a microphone. The tap of someone's shoes as they walk past. The clink of a glass hitting the counter. These sounds are all part of the soundtrack of my life, and I've come to realize how much I've been missing. The noises that make up the heartbeat of the world. The way they layer together to create something new.

So, in the privacy of my studio, I start piecing it all together. Every sound gets its own place, its own little niche in the track. And slowly, almost like magic, the rhythm begins to form. It's not a melody, not at first. It's a collection of noise, each piece coming together to create something tangible, living.

I don't know how to explain it, but when I sit at the keyboard, when I take the mic in my hands, I let the sounds guide me. The rhythm becomes a compass, and my voice? It's subtle. So soft it feels like I'm barely making a sound at all.

I don't want to overpower the music. I want to blend with it, to become part of it.

I focus on the breath. The inhale, the exhale. I let my voice follow the flow of the sounds around me. I barely sing the words. It's almost a whisper, like I'm letting the world speak through me. My voice doesn't command attention, it invites it. It's delicate. Sometimes, I wonder if it's even good. But then, I remember—good isn't what I'm after. It's real. It's honest.

I sing over the recordings, layering my voice just like I do with the sounds. I let each track evolve, like I'm letting the world lead the way. I don't try to overpower the noises; instead, I let them work their magic, pulling me into their rhythm, letting them dictate the song's mood. Sometimes, I can barely hear my own voice over the sounds I've captured. And that's okay. I'm not here to compete with the city. I'm not here to fight for the spotlight. I want to create something that feels alive, creations that pulses with the same energy I felt walking through the busy streets of Tokyo or listening to the wind whispering through the trees in Kyoto.

The more I work on it, the more I realize that I don't have to force it. I don't have to push. The sounds, the moments—they all come together in their own time. All I have to do is listen. It's a different kind of music, but it's mine. It's a music that lets the silence speak. Let's the world hum along with me.

When I write lyrics, I don't think it's now how most people do it. At least not how we do it for Kill John. There's no theme, no overarching plan to what I'm saying. I don't think about love or sex or the things that typically occupy a songwriter's mind. I think about everything else. The little things. The random stuff that pops into my head and sticks there, like gum on the bottom of a shoe.

Sometimes it starts with simplicity—a stray thought I can't shake. A phrase, a fleeting observation. And I don't try to polish it, don't try to make it sound perfect. I just write. Whatever comes out. It's chaotic, but it feels natural. It's a map of my brain, if you want to look at it that way. It's the static, the noise that buzzes behind my eyes when everything else is still.

I've always had a tendency to obsess over small things. It's a pattern, like a song stuck on repeat. Maybe it's a TV show I binge-watch for a week, unable to get it out of my head, or a random conversation I overhear that takes root and refuses to leave. I don't analyze it. I just jot it down. A line here, a verse there. It's not glamorous, but it's honest.

It could be as trivial as the way a person taps their foot when they're nervous, or the way the clock ticks louder when I'm trying to sleep. I'll get obsessed with the sound of it, the rhythm, the way it feels like everything around me is moving, but I'm just stuck watching. And in my head, it becomes bigger, something that demands to be written down. The tap of a foot becomes a symbol of impatience. The clock tick becomes the reminder of time running out. I can't let it go, so I scribble it down.

Sometimes, it's not even a thought. Sometimes it's just an image that gets stuck in my head. A picture of someone's face, the way their lips curve when they smile, or the way their eyes flicker when they're hiding their story. I don't know what it means, but it's there. It keeps me up at night, and I feel this compulsion to write it down, to capture it before it slips away. So, I write lines about eyes that can't stop looking, about smiles that are too tight, about faces that tell stories without words.

I've written about the people I've met along the way. Strangers who cross my path for only a moment, but leave an imprint that lasts longer than I expect. A woman who walked past me in the Tube, her heels clicking against the platform like a warning. I caught a glimpse of her face, and it struck me—the quiet sadness in her eyes, the way she carried herself like the weight of the world was on her shoulders. I didn't know her. I didn't know her story. But I wrote it anyway. I wrote about that fleeting moment of connection, how she was both everything and nothing at once.

It can even be about confronting people. I've got a lot of unresolved stuff in my past—people I've never said the right words to, moments I've let slip by without speaking my mind. It's easy to bottle things up when you're busy being part of something bigger, part of a band, part of a machine. But the music? The lyrics? It gives me a chance to confront all the things I've never said aloud.

I'll write about the conversations I never had. About the apologies I never made. I'll write about the people I've hurt, the moments I should've spoken up but stayed silent. The words I would've said if I'd only known how. It's not cathartic in the traditional sense. It's not about releasing emotion. It's about capturing a snapshot of what's inside my head and letting it exist somewhere other than just me.

I don't care if no one reads it. I don't care if it's ever heard. It's just my way of processing the chaos that swirls inside me, the thoughts that refuse to settle. I don't try to make it pretty. I don't try to craft it into a song that's easy to listen to. It's raw. It's messy. It's just whatever I can't get out of my head.

The notebooks pile up. I've lost count of how many I've filled over the years. Some of them are just fragments—lines of poetry that never went anywhere, musings on things that caught my attention for a few days, a few weeks. Some are longer, more complete, songs that have the potential to turn into art. But most of it is just random. Just thoughts running through my head, unpolished, unrefined. It's the inner workings of my mind laid bare.

The thing is, I don't know how to stop. I don't know how to quiet the noise in my head, how to ignore the compulsive urge to write it all down. If I don't, it'll keep spinning in circles, faster and faster until it becomes overwhelming. So I write. I let the words spill onto the page. I don't try to make sense of it. I just let it happen.

It's not about finding answers. It's about letting the questions, the thoughts, the chaos, exist. I don't need to understand it all. I just need to get it out.

I don't know if anyone else will ever hear it. Maybe it'll stay buried in these notebooks forever, a collection of random thoughts that no one will ever understand. But for now, that's enough. Writing it down, letting it exist somewhere outside of my head.

That's all I need.

And so, I keep writing. Composing. Singing. Listening. Because the world is loud, but the quiet is where I find my voice.