Cin Cin

Words are jumbled, as if someone is rushing to tell a dream before it fades away. Everything is mixed up, Captain, machines, radio waves, and someone's "sangria of love." In this chaos, there's a strange harmony: unintelligible phrases become a rhythm, the ragged breath of a dance where no one understands the steps, but everyone moves in unison. It feels like someone is gathering the past from fragments: phrases, snippets of prayers, nicknames of forgotten friends. And from this collage emerges not a song, but the magic of everyday trance, a little tired, a little wild, but in its own way honest. Everything feels like it's not fully understood, but it was lived to the last sound.