PVTA BABY

The city breathes heavily, as if after a gunshot. Headlights cut through the smoke, bass booms somewhere beneath the skin, and everything around is imbued with the feeling that life is not a plan, but survival on the edge of adrenaline and excitement. This is not about dreams - it's about movement, the rustle of bills and the glint of chains, bodies moving to the rhythm as if they know the secret of the perpetual motion machine.

Every line smells of gasoline, sweat, and ambition. It's ridiculous to think about morality when everything revolves around instinct - being first, being noticeable, being dangerous. The world is falling, but the beat is rising. And if you're going to burn, then burn to the end - under the lights of neon signs and to the sound of your own breath, knocked out by rhyme and speed.