Pilon Gras

The nite air is thick, almost viscous - as if saturated with cigaret smoke, anxiety, and the unfamiliar conversations coming from the window across the street. Everything seems to be the same: concrete, the cold light of the streetlights, a couple of sharp phrases about "liquide" and "minimum." But somewhere beneath that hum, you can hear weariness - not feigned, but real, the kind that seeps between words when your strength is waning. It seems people here live on autopilot: they smoke, drink, laugh, joke - as if everything is under control, even tho it hasn't been for a long time. Each verse is like another turn of a sleepless nite, where instead of sleep, there's an attempt to "relax," but it just ends up being a way to stop overthinking. And all of this isn't about gangster stories and a showy style, but about the fine line between bravery and apathy. When even a fall sounds rhythmic, and pain somehow keeps time with the bass.