Hole

A hollow word, repeated like a mantra, like a hot pulse at your temple after a run. Everything revolves around one feeling - heat, which sometimes burns and sometimes rises to the surface. It's as if the future is pulling you by the scruff of your neck into the twenty-first century, and your body is resisting, tangled up in its own energy.

There is something primitive about this rhythm: it does not tell a story, but creates a state. Like standing under the spotlights when it seems that the light is burning through you, and all that remains is to step forward - into the tempo, into the noise, into this very heat that is now impossible to shake off.