Parasol

There is a strange tension in the air: between exhaustion from one's own demons and the habit of still playing this eternal “game of life” to the end. The words sound like notes on crumpled sticky notes - “sorry,” “I wish it were easier,” “nothing falls from the sky” - and there is no complaint in them, only an honest admission that glitz and noise do not cure inner insomnia.

The beats swing like an empty night elevator - smooth, with a hum, a slight echo, and on top of that - a voice that sometimes whispers, sometimes smiles. There is the irony of a tired winner: money, likes, applause - but in his head, it's still the same half-baked poetry, lists of habits, and jokes about angels who laugh at your doubts. The music neither comforts nor condemns - it's like a soft landing after a long flight, when the storm is still raging, but it's already quiet.