Phénoménal

A hollow bass, like the echo of empty streets where the asphalt remembers too many footsteps. In his voice, you can hear the fatigue of a winner who made it, even if barefoot. It smells like sweat, gasoline, and a hint of vanilla - the kind you remember from home, the kind that pops into your mind surrounded by concrete walls.

He says he made himself, and you believe him - because behind every word you hear not pride, but the habit of survival. Between the lines - betrayal, scars, but also a kind of tenderness, hidden deep down so as not to get in the way.

The rhythm beats like an engine on its last liter of fuel, and on top of it all is the calmness of a man who no longer expects salvation. Only speed, only the stage, only him and his shadow. And yet, when the last “youou” fades away, there remains a feeling in the air that loneliness is also a kind of phenomenon.