П'яні серенади

The rain blurs the lines between the past and the present. The street seems to breathe with old promises, and the sound of a siren turns into a drunken serenade for those who still know how to wait. The air smells of wet asphalt and a little cheap wine left over from the evening when it seemed fate was listening to the songs. The drops are tapping a rhythm on the balcony, as if someone is knocking on a memory. And amidst this fog, where even the wind sings along, only a voice remains – tipsy, sincere, slightly broken, but alive. He's not asking, he's just singing. Because sometimes a song is the only thing that keeps you from feeling completely alone.