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Every world eventually develops its own symbolic language. Certain images begin to appear again and again—not because they are decorative, but because they express ideas that ordinary language cannot fully contain.

Evanescent Horizons is woven through with such symbols. Some come from astronomy: the North Star, TrES-2b. Others from Christian tradition: the Angel of Sardis, the liturgy, Compline. Others belong to the quiet language of nature: gardens, silence, light and darkness.

None of them exists simply for atmosphere. Each one carries part of the album’s emotional and philosophical landscape. Over the coming days, as we walk through the songs together, these symbols will gradually reveal why they belong exactly where they are.

People sometimes ask why Evanescent Horizons consists of eleven tracks. The answer has very little to do with numbers. It has everything to do with shape.

The album was never conceived as a collection of songs. From the beginning, it existed in my mind as a single emotional arc.

The first five tracks descend steadily into loss, disillusionment and collapse. Each one strips away another certainty until nothing remains. The sixth track stands exactly at the centre. It contains no lyrics because, at that point, language itself has failed. Until then, the protagonist searches through words: pleading, questioning, accusing, mourning. But there comes a moment when suffering exceeds explanation. Nothing meaningful can still be said. Only music remains. From there, the second half begins—not as a return to happiness, but as a slow and uncertain movement toward acceptance. The final track ends with death, yet also with the realization that love itself was never meaningless.

That is why there are eleven tracks.

The shape came first.

The number simply followed.

When people encounter biblical quotations, liturgical references or fragments of Latin in my music, they often assume they point toward a religious message. For me, it has never been that simple.

These elements are not there to preach, persuade or declare certainty. They belong to the symbolic language in which I first learned to think about the questions that still shape my music: love and guilt, hope and loss, mortality and transcendence. Long before I asked philosophical questions, I already knew the rhythm of the liturgy. Long before I understood theology, I had heard biblical stories, prayers and ancient words repeated through ritual. They did not remain outside me. They became part of the inner vocabulary through which I tried to understand the world.

Over the years, many of my convictions have changed. Some I left behind; others I came to understand differently. Yet this symbolic language remained with me. So did my sensitivity to mystery. And so did the quiet restlessness that keeps searching for permanence in a world defined by change, while knowing that the world itself can never fully provide it.

That is why Evanescent Horizons is woven through with biblical imagery, liturgical echoes and occasional passages of Latin. Not because they offer answers. But because there are still questions I cannot imagine asking in any other language.

Some instruments create melodies. Others create space. Not physical space, but the invisible space in which music can breathe, where emotions can expand beyond words.

For me, that space has always resembled the night sky. On some evenings, the stars feel comforting, almost protective. On others, the same sky becomes overwhelming, confronting us with a universe so immense that it quietly dissolves every illusion of our own importance. I have always searched for an instrument capable of giving that experience a voice.

For me, that instrument has always been the church organ. Its sound carries something I have never found anywhere else. It is monumental without becoming aggressive, intimate without becoming fragile. It can lift us toward something greater while quietly reminding us how small we truly are. Whenever I hear a great organ, I think of Gothic cathedrals. Not only because of their architecture, but because they evoke exactly the same emotional paradox: they are places of extraordinary beauty, yet they also carry an almost unbearable weight. One enters them feeling invited… and at the same time humbled.

That paradox lies at the heart of Evanescent Horizons.

The album is, in many ways, a story about losing everything that once seemed certain. Love, hope, identity, even the meaning of suffering itself are gradually stripped away. Yet through that loss, another perspective slowly begins to emerge: one that reaches beyond what can be measured or possessed.

The church organ became the musical thread connecting those ideas. It appears throughout the album not because I wanted to create a “church-like” atmosphere, but because no other instrument speaks so naturally about transcendence. It gives voice to a world that exists beyond the visible. A world that is beautiful and terrifying in equal measure. A world vast enough to make us feel insignificant, yet meaningful enough to make every act of love matter.

Perhaps that is why the organ has always felt at home in my music. Not because it sounds ancient. But because it reminds us that some questions have always been larger than ourselves.

There was a time when listening to an album meant more than pressing play. Many of us remember sitting with a CD booklet in our hands, reading the lyrics while the music unfolded, discovering references, symbols, and hidden connections that revealed themselves only after repeated listens. An album was not simply consumed; it was explored.

This guide was born from that same spirit. It is not a booklet, nor is it an attempt to explain the songs. The lyrics of Evanescent Horizons were written to stand on their own. Their story is intentionally understated, and many of the ideas that connect the eleven songs remain beneath the surface. I wanted it that way. My goal was never simply to tell a story, but to use that story as a way of exploring questions that have accompanied me for years: questions about love, loss, meaning, hope, mortality, and what (if anything) endures when everything else seems to disappear.

Think of this guide as a companion to the album rather than a commentary on it. It offers the context in which the songs were written, the ideas that shaped them, and the musical choices that helped bring them to life. It is an invitation to look beneath the surface and discover another layer of the journey.

Ultimately, however, this guide is about something more personal. Every album inevitably becomes a portrait of the person who created it. Whether we intend it or not, our experiences, convictions, doubts, and hopes find their way into the music. Evanescent Horizons is no exception. Through a fictional narrative, I found a way to speak honestly about my own worldview, my own questions, and the things I have come to believe. In the end, I realized that this was the only thing I could truly offer. Because as musicians, we can imitate styles, admire influences, and learn techniques. But sooner or later, every meaningful work begins with the same decision: to give something of ourselves.

I hope this guide enriches your journey through Evanescent Horizons.Thank you for taking it. If you’d like to spend a little more time in the world of Evanescent Horizons, I’d be honored to have you read its Companion Book. You can download it below.

🔗 A Companion to Evanescent Horizons