Culpable

Nighttime jealousy in neon: words like whispers from someone else's phone - and suddenly it's hot, and suddenly it's ticklish from the prick of conscience. Here there is an automatic “kiss” and an admission that the traces are lost - but the heart still wants to dig and search. It's a little silly to remember photos in a bikini and think about what to spend a “thousand” on, and in this funny tragicomedy there is a warm vulnerability. It sounds like a confession after midnight: rough, honest, and with a slight smile between the lines.