В сигаретном дыму

Cigarette smoke plays the role of a decorator in this story, covering the space with grey tulle to hide the absurdity of unspoken words. Silhouettes melt away, promises crumble into sand, and with them the belief that something can be fixed. The irony is that there are no tears - even they refused to waste their energy on this ending.

Here, melancholy sounds not like a dramatic aria, but like a slow poison that drips neatly into a vein every morning. It seems like dawn is coming, but it is met not with hope, but with bitter smoke and a feeling of emptiness on the neighbouring pillow. It is too honest to call it love, and too painful to call it just a habit.

The fire that used to warm you turns into a stranger's spark, and your memory turns into an annoying phone call in the middle of the night. It seems like you're still living, and someone is there, but for some reason, it's that voice that should have disappeared with the smoke a long time ago that disturbs you.