Ça parle mal

The hollow beat pounds in your chest like the engine of an old Lada 9, which is still running on sheer willpower and anger. The air here smells of tobacco, concrete, and mistrust. Everyone is fighting for survival - some with words, some with blades, some simply with silence. They speak harshly, live sharply, dream of a million - not for luxury, but to breathe easy just once.

Through the wheezing and swearing, something almost tender emerges: fatigue from the eternal “hang in there,” from the role of the strong, from hopeless scenarios. The world spins in a closed circle, and everyone here is looking for a way to escape - at least mentally. But as long as the beat keeps pumping and the studio lights are on, there is still life in this noise. And its own truth - hoarse, but real.