A child asking how the sun keeps rising would find their answer in Even if you don’t know how. Michele Viglietti doesn’t build a song—he sketches a feeling, one soft stroke at a time. There’s no curtain-raising drama, no theatrical explosion. Instead, there’s an immediate intimacy, like walking into a room where someone has already started telling you a secret.
The song opens in quiet surrender. A gentle, finger-picked acoustic guitar lays the foundation, while a delicate ukulele hums in the background—less an instrument, more a whisper. It’s the kind of arrangement that doesn’t need to shout because it knows you’re already listening. The real anchor, though, is Michele’s voice. There’s something fragile in the way he sings—not broken, just human. It trembles, but it stands. That vulnerability becomes the song’s strength.
Halfway through, the calm breaks—not with volume, but with intention. An electric guitar solo cuts through the quiet like sunlight through a window, echoing the internal journey the lyrics suggest. It’s not flashy or showy—it simply exists, perfectly placed, like the thought that comes after a long silence.
The lyrics do exactly what they need to without asking permission. Lines like “Show her that you handle it, even if you don’t know how” are confessions dressed as instructions. They don’t pretend to solve anything—they just admit the problem with grace. That’s rare.
This track doesn’t offer triumph. It offers something more rare: the courage to keep going without a map. Michele Viglietti doesn’t write an anthem for the lost. He writes a hymn for those quietly pretending they aren’t. And sometimes, that’s the only kind of hope that matters.
