Prosty Chłopak

A gray block, a gray sky, gray everyday life - but inside, everything pulsates as if someone turned life up to maximum volume. There's no room for lyricism here: the asphalt smells of sweat and exhaust, and dreams are measured not in kilometers, but in chances survived. Every word carries a hint of fatigue and pride, like those who have climbed out of the mud but haven't forgotten where they came from. The music roars like an engine under the windows - hoarse, stubborn, with a hint of champagne in the taste of victory and the echo of an old Nokia somewhere in the past. It's simple: he's a guy from the block, but the world around him no longer seems so gray.