Я всё сказал

The coffee has gone cold, the bed is rumpled, and the excuses have not yet been assembled into coherent sentences. Too honest, too loud, and too late - when everything has already been said, but it seems that nothing has been heard. The memory of feelings lives here not in confessions, but in small things: a crumpled sheet, an empty mug, a broken voice.

And all this is like a sea storm without a lifebuoy. Like someone pulling your hand, but not quite reaching it. In a photo of the future, where someone is already gone, and where the past remains only an echo in a song. There is no final point here - only a stubborn ‘I've said everything,’ which sounds like a verdict and an attempt to justify oneself at the same time.