Asabiyet Meydanı

The city buzzes like a huge pot in which everything boils together - sweat, swearing, melancholy, and music, all cooked up in the same rhythm. Here, everyone is a student of a street school, where curbs replace desks and a hoarse bass from the gateway replaces the bell. The air is hot, sticky, but alive - like a party where even the walls dance.

There is no gilding here - everything is based on touch, intuition, that very street sense that saves you from falsehood. At night, bottles clink, sparks fly, and someone is bound to philosophize about fate, while others simply look for a warmer place. But beneath this noise there is a strange tenderness: towards one's own, towards those who do not give up, towards those who know how to burn, even if the wick has long since become damp.

The music sounds like a hoarse sermon on survival - a little dirty, a little funny, but real to the point of trembling.