BOOBOO

It pulses somewhere between a concrete rhythm and cartoon absurdity, as if Fred Flintstone got lost among panel houses and rap beats, where the air smells of grass, freedom, and a touch of cheekiness. Everything spins, smokes, and winks: half-sleep, half-trance, ironic chaos under a beat that's its own captain. In every "jab-da-ba" there's a pinch of childlike joy, a bit of street rebellion, and that heavy negativity that hides behind laughter. It's funny, strange, and for some reason cozy when the whole world turns into a thick "boo-boo" rhythm, and you just nod along, trying not to lose your inner balance.