Biri Var

Life sometimes turns into a continuous August, where it suddenly becomes cold, as if in the middle of winter. Everything seems to be the same as before - a glass, the night, music - but in these familiar surroundings, there is no longer any joy, only an attempt to warm up from someone who left a draft behind. Pride prevents you from collapsing, but it becomes increasingly difficult to keep your back straight.

It's like a conversation with yourself on the verge of losing your sense of proportion: when you're not drunk on wine, but on memories, and when your hands beat on the table not in rhythm, but in despair. The funny thing is that the culprit of all this drama is most likely sleeping peacefully, while someone is sitting in the middle of the night arguing with August about why it's so cold.