Sepsis

On the threshold of some great unraveling - the night air thick with illness and long-forgotten promises, the road stretching like a ribbon of memories. A note in a notebook, as if whispering to someone: “new line, madness on schedule,” and the engines of monotony hum in unison. The sacred mother Death steps out onto the street with a grim smile, and everything around suddenly looks like a golden crust on a baked past - beautiful, but with a taste of ashes.

It sounds like an evil prayer with a touch of sarcasm: Kevlar threads are woven, a sickle stretches across the neck, silver rolls into lead, and the stolen flowers of the state hang upside down. There is both theatricality and quiet cruelty here - as if at an apocalypse party, everyone is dressed in cult robes, and someone with warm malice is setting fire to it. It feels like a domestic disaster: frighteningly close and a little funny, because in the end, worshiping the end becomes a habit.