Septic

It's like being stuck in an elevator between the floors of psychotherapy and a party. Everything seems to be on fire - your skin, your stories, your inner dialogue - but it's no longer drama, it's almost a style. Filters cover your flaws, tears glisten under glitter, and a fragile “normal” has the aftertaste of an error code. The song is like a selfie from a mental basement where someone has turned on the neon lights for some reason. And now you're smiling, not quite real, but beautiful nonetheless.