Clefs de sol

From the street comes a bass line in which the beats of nerves can be heard instead of rhymes. This isn't about the beauty of the lines - this is about survival, where every bill is heavier than friendship, and the memory of lost people booms louder than the beats. The words smell of asphalt, dust, and cheap tobacco, as if every syllable were engraved on a bullet casing.

The speech is sharp, with a wheeze, as if every sound passes through the teeth of restrained rage. But behind all the bravado, you can hear fatigue - that very taste when you know the price of both luck and betrayal. The music rocks, but it rocks in such a way that you feel: this is not a dance, it is a way not to fall.