SZURU BURU

The morning chaos in the bathroom, captured in rhythm: toothpaste on the lips, water on the floor, and endless “whys” in the eyes of the mirror - it all sounds like a satirical anthem to everyday melancholy. The voice seems to argue with good manners: there is a note of reproach and a chuckle - “walk while brushing your teeth, left or right - it doesn't matter” - it sounds like the philosophy of a little rebellious freedom.

A mixture of irritation and stubborn dignity: resentments turn into metaphors of stains on the carpet, demands for purity of soul turn into demands for clean teeth, and holding on to the microphone is almost an act of self-preservation. All this noise is not a cry, but a delicate presentation of a list of complaints to a world that gives lessons in “upbringing” on autopilot; at the same time, there remains a warm, almost ironic attachment to imperfection, like an old toothbrush that is strange to part with.