Улица

Moscow is noisy, bright, and boisterous, while someone on the outskirts squints at its lights and thinks, “Forget it, this showcase.” It's not about glamour here - it's about gray jackets, wet asphalt, and voices that merge into a hoarse chorus of courtyards. Everyone seems to be “tied up,” but their hands are free, which means they are still alive. Between the cardigan and the revolver lies a whole philosophy of survival: style versus system, bravado instead of armor. It's not the romance of the streets, but their reality - a little dirty, noisy, but real. And somewhere in this din, you can hear Moscow calling, and the answer is, “We're not going there.”