All the Things She Said

Heat that doesn't warm, but oppresses. At first quietly, as if someone is whispering a plea for help, then in flashes, like a lamp on the verge of burning out. Words dissolve into sound, leaving only a pulse - viscous, almost corporeal. The air trembles with tension, and you can't tell if it's a dance or a panic attack to the rhythm of the bass. It seems that in a moment everything will melt: walls, thoughts, the remnants of self-control. But this is the real “heat” - not about temperature, but about how everything is boiling inside, while on the outside everything seems calm.