VENDETTA

The noise of the entrance hall at six in the morning, when the door is chosen not by ringing but by knocking - and that's already a whole biography: the asphalt smells of hashish, the ear is tuned to the ricochets of rumors, and trust is a rare currency. Here, dreams of a palace coexist with the habit of hiding the truth behind metal: instead of long schemes, there are decisive “metals”; instead of poetry, there is machine-gun direct speech. The irony is that against the backdrop of all this harshness, you can still hear the bet on the stage - better SACEM than “a punch in the nose”; as if honesty is measured not by words, but by what's left in your pocket.

The inner voice balances between the angel on the left and the pragmatism of the street, and it turns out that taking a penalty kick is not about sport, but about the chance not to be late for your moment. Paranoia smolders in your head, the rhythm is a counter of opportunities: “you can bet on me - I'm next.” This feeling is not about heroism or pity, but about quiet determination: we grew up in the courtyards, we don't want to “end up on the ground,” but the dream of a better life is almost always through the window, not through the door.