CERTYFIKAT

The city hums like an old refrigerator, noisy but cosy. The air smells of gasoline and the stale breath of the night, the lights of shop windows are reflected in your eyes, and on your skin are the imprints of strangers' kisses and tattoos that have already become part of the landscape. Everything is a bit excessive: the glitter, the makeup, the clothes, the showing off. But the pleasure isn't in looking right, the pleasure is in burning up completely. The music is pumping so hard it feels like the concrete is breathing and the sky has lowered to the level of the rooftops. Love here isn't about feelings, it's about speed, bodies, and cigarettes, about "don't promise, just stay." Everything is fragile, temporary, but incredibly real. Like a night no one intended to live through until morning.