FAKE

Pinky promises sound nice, but they break faster than old fences after the wind. Tears are not a tragedy here, but rather small currency that is used to pay for other people’s games. Outside there are smiles and facades, inside there is emptiness and cardboard roles. Everything revolves around changing masks: three days - and already there are new rules, new feelings, new mistakes. The irony is that even resentment has its own poetry: pink fingers, the dust of Atlanta, songs about friendship that will never happen. The music sounds like a fair of fakes, where the only thing that remains real is the annoyance of wasted time.