Be That to You

Like a conversation in the kitchen in the middle of the night - quiet, stubborn, with equally trembling voices on both sides of the table. The words sound like attempts to glue a broken cup back together while the glue is still warm: “Don't say that everything is lost, don't say that this is the end.” The melody is soft but catchy, like fingers that won't let go of your hand in the dark.

There is a bitter taste of regret and a strange tenderness in it - the kind that only appears after storms, when there is nothing left to shout and all that remains is to whisper. And this whisper, mixed with the beat, stretches not even towards forgiveness, but towards the hope that, perhaps, tomorrow it will still be possible to put back together what seemed to have fallen forever.