Королева

A night road like a cradle, where the queen is not made of gold, but of insomnia and exhaust pipes: warm metal burns your palms, and your heart tries to shout down the engine. Inside, there is a mixture of self-praise and a strange, tender ritual: pour yourself a cup of tea, fall asleep in defiance of all your promises, and spread the days out on your palms like hot coins. It's like looking at the city from the saddle of a bike - a concrete barrier suddenly becomes a bench for two, and fear turns into a poster of the sunset; the irony in the melody - as if you're saying “buy the queen” in all seriousness, but the thought drags a shadow behind it that never disappears. The song both hurts and heals: a loud engine, whispers of farewells, torn lines that lull you to sleep every now and then - but sleep stubbornly refuses to come.