DIMA RAVE

The city buzzes with French slang and auto-tune: calls of “what's up?”, the glare of shop windows on Place de Clichy, and the endless “you're coming” in my headphones - like a password to a closed heart. Between bravado and confusion, anime references, dyed hair, inner demons, and a tornado of emotions flash by. Each line is like an attempt to keep the rhythm going while feelings stumble over their own pride.

This sound contains club smoke, street irony, and a touch of fatigue. Everything seems to be according to the rules: the flow is updated, the style is on point, the beats are smooth. Only under the layer of effects, you can hear not anger, but that stubborn “don't let go.” Even the final “bastard” sounds not like an insult, but like a quiet confession: it still hurts.