Rulon

Moscow at night through dark glass: a black truck, flashing lights in the distance, and bass like a heart that can't seem to learn to beat steadily. Everything is on display at once - rolls of banknotes, glossy Hugo hoodies, cards on the table like little destinies, and the feeling that each stop is just another line in a diary without the author's signature.

Dancing is like a deal: “spin” says the music, and the body responds exactly as instructed - half an hour of pleasure, then “comb your hair” - and back on the road. There is no romance here in the classical sense, there is a mixture of lust and calculation, a gentle irony of fate that puts emptiness in the front seat and two “stars” for each in the back.

In the mirror - a dog, on the clock - the second hour, on the soul - a comet: bright, fast, and dangerously pleasant. The scene smells of gasoline, leather, and the ashes of habits; where honor is measured by glasses and scarves, and peace of mind is only found in photos on your phone. A little sad? Perhaps. But somehow warm - like an evening cigarette that still keeps you company.