Pétunias

Nights are reduced to rare moments of sleep, and only one thought spins in my head - the zeros on paper are louder than any likes. The sound of the engine, the shore, and the sun nearby, as if success were geography: always close to the coast and in everyone's speakers. Everything seems like a cautious agreement: business is woven into every sentence, while personal matters are neatly tucked away “in the drawer.”

There is a satirical smile where the usual “haters” turn into statistics - three million and a little envy on the side. The people around sometimes seem like characters from an old movie - they died beautifully, in petunias; traitors appear more often than former friends. The irony is that loud words about “the streets” come from those who have long since moved into comfortable armchairs, and the real struggle is to preserve peace and their wallets.

Between the stated principles and real desires, there is a stretch in which they manage to dance. Praise is postponed, but the trophies are already hanging on the wall - yet they do not give off warmth, but rather like a guitar string: the vibration remains, and the touch is cautious. This whole story is not a confession, but a neat list of sensations: loud, dense, with a touch of irony and protective armor made of deeds.