7Sven

“Is it all for sale…”

Routine was written in a moment when the world felt morally unsteady. A political event that shook many people left me wondering how we're supposed to return to our everyday lives when something fundamental seems to have shifted. How do we step back into our routines when everything feels wrong and yet continues as if nothing happened?

The song carries anger, exhaustion, and a deep longing for clarity. It asks what becomes of a society when truth feels negotiable and power casts a long shadow over the common good. And still, there is a spark of hope. A quiet resistance against resignation. A reminder that we are not small — that we still have the ability to shape who we are and how we live.

For me, Routine is a song about holding on to humanity in the noise. About moving forward even when you feel the urge to stop. About the question of how much we can lose before we lose ourselves.

“Steppin' in the light…”

Anorexic Mind began with the image of a cliff diver standing high above a deep blue surface — suspended in a moment that is both terrifying and strangely pure. Just before the jump, thoughts rush through him in a way that feels random and ancient at the same time, as if something inside him is speaking with unusual clarity.

Up there, in that thin air where the world becomes distant, something opens. The noise fades. The self becomes sharper. The moment becomes alive.

The song tries to capture that fragile threshold: the second before everything changes, the breath before surrender, the strange stillness in which you feel the world returning to you from within. It's a song about falling without fear. About trusting the unknown. About the quiet truth that your time — your presence — is the only treasure you carry with you when you leap.

“How can this day be saved…”

The Days They Meet At Midnight was born from watching a river near my home, a quiet, constant movement that continues through every season. Leaves fall, snow melts, storms pass, and yet the river never stops, never freezes, never holds on. It simply carries what arrives and lets it go again.

Our thoughts behave in much the same way. Impressions drift through the mind in an endless current: bright, dark, tender, frightening, absurd, comforting. They appear, dissolve, return, disappear. In Buddhism you learn not to be swept away by this river, but to watch it, to let it flow without clinging.

This song tries to capture that feeling. The beauty of days that pass. The tenderness of moments that don't last. It's a reminder that transience is not a flaw in life, but its quiet pulse. You don't love these days despite their fleeting nature, you love them because of it.

Musically this one is more jazz-rock oriented and harmonically more complex, but it also has a very warm and romantic feel to it, with a little more edge.

Do you like your nightmares? Probably not — but what if they return again and again and start to feel like an old acquaintance, and after some years even like a friend?

Written in the morning after one of my crazy “final negotiations” in a hotel in Munich. It is supposed to capture that crazy and exhausted mixture of feelings after the event. It is always weird and inhuman, mixed with a feeling of “we against the world”, which I of course somehow do love.

This song was written out of anger about a society that rewards being egoistic and not caring for other people who might need help.

Musically it is quite sparse but with a catchy hookline: a restrained mixture of an acoustic guitar with heartfelt lyrics and a synthesizer, which in the end gets a little emphatic. It could all be so easy, come on…

Being in love is the only thing that counts. Even in the very final moments of a love affair, when both know it's over. During that one final try and that one final kiss, the world loses its shape once more and there's nothing else for a second — before they lose it all. That is the emotion I wanted to can in this song.

It's just two guitars, keyboard, bass and drums; on the surface a pretty simple arrangement, but with some hidden complex undercurrents. It is supposed to creep into you like a novel that's easy to read but afterwards keeps buzzing around somewhere in the back of your mind. The song was written and recorded very fast. It had to get out somehow.

Written in 2003, this song is about working in a company where you give a part of yourself away when you enter the office — and try to get it back when you leave.

Written around 1995 or 1996, this song deals with misty dreams about an unclear future. It is a typical student's lament about things you have and haven't, both melancholy and hopeful at the same time.