Дым

Smoke rises in lazy clouds, as if trying to hide the ceiling from unnecessary thoughts. The evening has been ruined again, but there is a certain therapy in this - allowing yourself a pause, a little mischief, and honest silence instead of strained conversation. Here, regrets, the habit of living “wrong,” and the desire to become better are all mixed together like ashes in an ashtray. But in this crumpled one-room apartment with records on the walls, something more important than smoke is heard: memories of falls, a mother's tears, and a quiet determination to get up again. The result is a confession wrapped in cigarette smoke, where even mistakes sound not like a sentence, but like a way to keep breathing.