Peradaban

It's like an old cassette tape found in a box of random stuff - it hisses a little, cuts out here and there, but there's a strange charm in that noise. Everything sounds uneven, as if someone is playing with the wires of reality: the microphone drowns in echo, then suddenly spits out a word that for some reason seems important, even though it has almost no meaning.

It feels like a room after a party - dim light, a little sticky, someone muttering under their breath, laughing into the void. The music is like a memory that doesn't ask to come back, but returns anyway, whispering something about '97 and other years when it was still possible to be careless and still be real.