Musisz

A loud party inside my head and no one's turning off the music. Demons wear name tags, get in your way, pour drinks, whisper: "Come on, you can do it." It feels like the evening has long turned into morning, but this strange thrill of living on autopilot still won't let go. It's not the alcohol that intoxicates, but the habit of being "in the know," of not stumbling, even when everything inside is burning like tires on strike. The soul dreams of exhaling, dissolving, but instead of a pause, another toast to health and a little self-irony in the voice. After all, how can you do without it: life is a ball, and the orchestra never has time to stop playing.