RUINART

The night dragged on again - sticky, like smoke from cheap cigars and conversations that aren't worth recording. Somewhere far away, clubs, flickering windows, promises of “later,” and messages without replies. Everything spins around - the engine, the rhythm, the thoughts - but inside there is only a hum and a slight irritation, as if the world has frozen mid-sentence.

It seems that everything has long been decided: who is below, who is above, who is waiting for their chance by the tower. This isn't about romance - it's about nerves, about surviving beautifully while the music keeps you afloat. And somewhere between the bass and the gasoline, a spark jumps - short, like a breath before a quarrel, and warm, like the last sip from someone else's glass.