have mercy

The rumble of bass, like a jackhammer on your nerves. Everything around you seems to be shrouded in smoke from burnt-out tracks and ambitions. Everyone here speaks loudly, as if afraid they won't be heard, but behind all the bravado lies the same thing - a stubborn belief that sound can save. Not in a metaphorical sense, but literally: pull you out of the basement, out of despair, out of “almost giving up.”

There is no street romance here - only their scorched remains, mixed with self-irony and fortitude. It doesn't matter who is wearing what or who shot what - what matters is that music works as armor. When you shout into the microphone, “I'm not alone here,” it's not pathos, but a request for someone else to respond with an echo. And that echo, it seems, really does exist.