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Darkness isn't always about fear. Sometimes it's just about silence, where you can hear what no one noticed healing, how what hasn't been talked about in a long time hurts. Here, the smell of tobacco is mixed with loneliness, and the fire of a cigarette is the only lamp in a room without light. Everything seems to be falling apart, but not completely - it's just being rebuilt from the inside, like a house after a fire.

There is a weary pride that does not ask for anything, but survives. There is anger that smells of honesty. Here, they do not seek sympathy - only air to breathe while it cuts their throats. And even when the body is scarred, inside it still flies - with broken wings, but stubbornly upward.