FAKE

Promises made with little fingers sound beautiful, but they break faster than old fences in the wind. Tears here are not a tragedy, but rather small change used to pay for other people's games. On the outside, there are smiles and facades; on the inside, there is emptiness and cardboard roles. Everything revolves around changing masks: three days - and already new rules, new feelings, new mistakes. The irony is that even resentment has its own poetry: pink fingers, the dust of Atlanta, songs about friendship that will never happen. The music sounds like a fair of fakes, where the only thing that remains real is the annoyance of wasted time.