DIMA RAVE

The city rustles with station names, slang, and sirens, interspersed with the eternal “hey, baby” and “what's up?” Love here is like a bike ride along a nighttime boulevard: it seems romantic, but at any moment you can find yourself on the handlebars, riding to the police station. Grand gestures, ridiculous posturing, and arguments about “who's crazier” clash head-on, while autotune glues together a sticky hook from insults. In your head, there's a tornado of childhood animations and ideas for a new paint job; in your pockets, there's a hurt ego and petty irony, but you still want to dance. The result is a bold diary of twenty-five years of vulnerability: noisy, tenacious, and unexpectedly tender between the lines.