NERA

It smells of damp concrete, cheap beer, and the ringing of trams - the kind of sound that stays in your head longer than any beat. No one seems to be in a hurry here, but everyone is losing something anyway: their phone, sleep, trust, the last remnants of romance. Words get jumbled, like footsteps after three in the morning, and the rhythm lives its own life - stubborn, half-asleep, streetwise.

There is something hopelessly honest about this: trading your heart so as not to be completely empty. The absurd philosophy of concrete courtyards - when even someone else's pain can be turned into a verse. And between the lines flashes a tired “sorry” that no one has time to say out loud.