Okna

Outside the window are worn-out garages and people who have lost their way; the city seems stuck in monochrome, and everyone around wants to say, “Turn on the lights.” In the voice, there is quiet fatigue and, at the same time, simple kindness: observations about guys running aimlessly, old people with wet eyes, and birds that still know where freedom is. It's the feeling of walking through empty streets at dawn, when the world is still weak and tender, but no longer lying.

Dreams stretch over the city like an old raincoat - warm, slightly damp, but protective. There is room for a little irony in this melancholy: life is harsh and unforgiving, but someone still leaves a ticket for tomorrow and carries hope in their pocket - even if it's just a bag of takeout food. The tone is soft, like a whisper in your ear: it's uncomfortable to listen to, but necessary at the same time - because in the silence, the most honest words can be heard.