Parle moi

The world seems to have frozen between the neon lights of shop windows and the overcast sky of the suburbs. Here, they don't count small change - only losses. And even love is measured not in gestures, but in how much silence one can endure. Fatigue is woven into the voice, but you can still hear the stubborn “I'm alive” in it. Not for likes, not for fame - simply because there is no choice.

It sounds like late night in a parking lot - when the engine has long been turned off, but thoughts are still racing around in circles. The city is noisy somewhere in the distance, Mom is probably awake again, and inside, everything is spinning around in circles: don't stray from the path, even if it goes through a storm.