Cadillac solitario

Midnight strolls through unfamiliar streets always end the same way - old stories replaying in my head. It seems like I'm driving a rusty Cadillac, with a glass of martini and a group of random passengers, but in reality I'm captive to a single thought: someone never called me back.

The city flashes with lights, palm trees stretch into the darkness, and a cigarette burns down in my fingers - and suddenly the past becomes closer than the present night. It seems like he wanted adventure, but ended up in the usual trap: longing is stronger than any change. And even if dawn finds him asleep in the seat, it will not be the end of the story, but just another turn in the road, where memory always cuts ahead.