8 godzin

It smells of flat cola and the light from a night monitor. My head is buzzing with thoughts that seem important, but they still slip away like pixels in an old arcade game. The day repeats for eight hours, and again the mirror asks, "Who are you, anyway?" Whether it's fatigue or an internal stand-up without an audience. Everything around is a little crooked, but it's even cosy because of that. Sarcasm mixes with melancholy, like coffee with salt – it shouldn't work, but it does. Between irritation and laughter, an honest confession: life is difficult, but it's funny to watch the world trying to be serious. It's all tracked to the 80s, pixelated eyes, and unkempt irony. A little chaos, a little introspection, and you end up with the soundtrack to an evening when everything is annoying, but somehow it's still okay.