Nouvelles

Love doesn't die here - it just moves into your head and lives there like an annoying melody that you can't turn off. It seems like everything has already been sorted out line by line, lived through, buried, and signed “end of story” on top. And then - bang, and in the next verse, her name pops up again. Not as a reproach, not as pain, but as a quiet habit of thinking about a person who has long been gone.

It all sounds like a conversation with oneself: between pride and longing, between principles and a soft spot under the ribs. It's funny, of course, how much pathos is put into trying to look indifferent. But between the beats and French rap, you can still hear it - there's no anger there, just residual warmth. It's just that now he doesn't dance, he reads rhymes. And it seems that this is his way of not forgetting.