Август - это ты

Parties are no longer the epicenter of the universe - now they are just a backdrop against which the inner noise is heard more clearly. Life is cut into pieces, like a tree at a bus stop - roughly, but honestly. Somewhere nearby, a boat of memories splashes about, somewhere bridges are built on sheer enthusiasm and a restless belief that “we” are not an illusion. Words - sometimes harsh, sometimes too honest, but they warm you up no worse than spring, even if they are hidden in a supermarket trolley between the ramp and the discounts.

Here, love sounds not like a confession, but like a habit of being together, even if the whole world is crumbling in your hands. And in this strange mix of philosophy, pain, and funny details, there is a very real “we are good.”