Supersonic

He's brimming with audacity and a slight hangover after a great party. Everything around is slightly distorted, as if the world has decided to become a caricature of glossy magazines: gin and tonic instead of morning coffee, a BMW instead of a bus, and laughter that makes your ears ring because it's too loud, too lively, too "to hell with everything." In every sound, there's an attempt to prove that being yourself is way cooler than being perfect. That sometimes the brilliant chaos, the smell of gasoline and cheap pills, sounds more honest than other people's advice. The world spins, roars, and promises golden peaks, while someone still lives under the waterfall, needing neither fame nor an audience. And it makes you feel a little funny, a little sad, and strangely free.