Perfection

These lines pulsate with that same stubborn pulse, when the storm inside seems more honest than the clear sky. The words spin like vinyl on an old record player: a little pain, a little excitement, unfiltered confessions. There is no perfection here - only cracks through which you can see a living heart, ready to ignite again.

It sounds like the confession of a person who has learned not to fear imperfection and even loves it - storms instead of peace, sweaters instead of bulletproof vests, fire instead of the usual silence. Each repeated ‘fire away love’ is like a challenge to time itself: everything passes, but passion is still more valuable than any drug.