CLOUD 9

In the car cabin at sunset, the bass voice is squeezing out boastfulness glued to the skin, and the tongue feels like it's stuck to the holster: it's funny and scary at the same time. Repeating phrases - like a spell, containing both a challenge and weariness: "they can't say I don't know how," "if you look too long - pop" - sound like markers of self-defense and stage pathos. There's no caring sentimentality here, but there's an almost domestic routine of violence: the habit of keeping a hand on the safety, the habit of turning threats into a show. Nervous humor breaks thru in the sharp lines - as if it's a toast to their own absurd rules of life. This feeling isn't a story, but a mental room where boasting coexists with weary vigilance. Beats are like a heartbeat, they pulse, and even the harshest words turn into a rhythmic ritual: let off steam, show your teeth, stay in the game. In the end, you can't help but smile: such aggressive confidence looks both intimidating and unpretentiously homely - like a bearded survival tale told while waiting in line for coffee.