Co kurwo patrzysz

City noise, tobacco smoke, and the dull thud of irritation under the ribs. There is no room for tenderness here - words fly like cheap beer bottles, and every syllable crunches like glass. This is not a song - it is an outburst. A broken carving, resentment, street poetry written with fists on concrete. In this world, no one has to like anyone else: not their face, not their smell, not the way they look. And if everything is burning, let it burn to the end. The main thing is that the ashes know their name.