Танцуй для меня

It's as if the radio has picked up a station from a parallel universe: the words are familiar, but their meaning seems to slip away, dissolving into the soundtrack of sleep after a sleepless night. The melody shifts from light chaos to lazy swaying, as if someone scattered notes around the kitchen and started cooking breakfast with them. Here, irony coexists with careless tenderness - like a conversation started at a party and finished at a bus stop in the rain. The music doesn't try to please, it just lives, rustles, and gurgles somewhere on the border between French cinema and morning coffee without sugar.