DIMA RAVE

The city rustles with station names, slang and sirens, and in between them - the eternal ‘baby’ and ‘how's it going?’. Love here is like a bike ride along a night boulevard: it seems romantic, but at any moment you can find yourself on the handlebars, riding to the police station. Grand gestures, ridiculous posturing and arguments about ‘who's crazier’ clash head-on, while autotune glues together a sticky hook from insults. In your head, there's a tornado of childhood animations and ideas for a new colour scheme, in your pockets, there's a touchy ego and petty irony, but you still want to dance. The result is a bold diary of twenty-five years of vulnerability: noisy, tenacious and unexpectedly tender between the lines.