Случайно Наступил На Шприц

The metallic taste in my mouth isn't from blood, but from clenching my teeth too often, trying not to exhale the truth. Everything seems to be going its own way: the beats are pounding on my nerves, words are falling like ashes, and even the confessions don't sound like love, but like the exhaustion of being indebted. The city is spinning, smoke is reaching the ceiling, and someone is still trying to prove they are capable of more than just surviving. Dirty tenderness, interrupted by anxiety, that's the whole formula. Even when you're empty inside, sound fills the space as if it is life itself.