7ELEVEN

The Milan skyline at nite turned inside out: the light from streetlights breaks in a plastic cup of dirty Fanta, someone speeds past in a Dodge, and next to a 7-Eleven it seems like all the important business is being decided between the coffee receipt and the gas station door. The rhythm of the words is like walking on rooftops – sometimes a slow ameba, sometimes a swift navigation swallow – and yet everything is equally fragile and dangerous, like a small, light pistol case in your pocket. The song's language whispers about the little things that make the story big: curls, a photo for the feed, three fingers in a bottle – the everydayness that a strange mix of pride and exhaustion chokes on. The voice in the track is like a diary after midnight: without pretension, with a slight smirk and a dangerous sense of style, when phrases cut the truth straight to the point and then immediately poke fun at it. Rejecting others' posts and not wanting to sing for the broadcast feel like a small victory for privacy, and mentions of calibers and machines seem more like accessories than a threat. Ultimately, the feeling remains that the world is both toy-like and metallic, and there's an unusual warmth of irony in this strange harmony.