Luz De Estrellas Muertas

This song has a birth date and a birthplace: a San Juan night — Spain's midsummer eve — once the beach had gone quiet. Lying on the sand under a clean sky, I told a friend something that has always stunned me: some of the stars we were looking at no longer exist, and their light is still arriving. I wasn't writing anything; it was just a calm conversation. But the idea stayed.

What I did with that image is about time and about how we look: almost everything we see — of stars, of people, of ourselves — is light that left a long time ago and arrives late. Old versions still shining as if they were the present, and the question of what we do with that light. The song takes it to the terrain of love: two people floating outside of time, where what they used to be stops mattering, and one idea at the end that I'm fond of — that if it all goes dark someday, what's left of us should be what's left of those stars: a signal still travelling.

The sound tries to resemble that scene rather than describe it: intimate alternative indie pop, airy and floating, with room for the voice and for the silences. It's a short song — under three minutes — and I like it that way: nights like that one don't last long either, and they don't need to.

The lyrics happen inside that image, not in front of it: two people floating weightless, no floor and no sky, in a place where time breaks the moment they touch. The vocabulary is all space — light, signals, expansion — but what it's about is very much down here: the moment someone goes right through you and everything before stops mattering.

The title might sound dark; the song is the opposite. The dead stars are there for what they teach about time: their light keeps arriving long after, and it's us who decide what to do with it. In the song that idea becomes almost a promise: even if it all goes out one day, something of this will keep travelling. That's why my favourite line is about echoes that refuse to fade — it isn't sadness, it's insistence.

There's one detail in the voice I wanted to keep: inside the final vocal still lives the voice from the first demo — deeper, more spontaneous, from the night the idea was still new — alongside the more polished version that came later. I liked that the song itself does what it talks about: keeping an old light inside the current one. And the whole thing sounds like that: airy, calm, the voice close and air all around, like a beach in the small hours once all the noise has gone.