Piano

The piano whispers like a coquette in the dim light, while everything around it screams - the glass, the motor, the fans pointing their fingers, as if life were an eternal performance. It's important not to ask questions here: just follow the radio, lie down on the rails of the melody, and let the guitar drown out the delicate keys. Tenderness and bragging go hand in hand - champagne in the salon, mild insomnia, and the feeling that every glance at the bills turns an ordinary meter of time into a scene.

The evening is like a long path where what should have healed still glitters with scars; the bill is paid or not paid - the rules change as you go. All this is perceived with warm irony: as if no one is to blame except the night and bad acoustics, and in the end, it is enough to turn up the piano and drive on until the sound lulls you to sleep.