Alamosa

Snow falls on the road, as if trying to cover yesterday's mistakes with a thin white blanket. Everything lies ahead - some forgotten city with a name that sounds both tired and hopeful at the same time. The wind whistles in the gaps between words, and the guitar seems to shake its head, as if to say, “It's all been done before, you're just going back to where you once listened to the rain and believed that everything could start over again.”

It smells of gasoline, wet earth, and a hint of regret. But step by step, to the rhythm of hoarse vocals, this regret turns into warmth - as if someone has finally decided not to run away, but simply to live what remains, honestly and to the end.