мило материшься

The damp morning air, sticky eyelashes, the smell of ash in my hair, and that light in the window that promised anything but peace. Everything here is like a winter courtyard of a high-rise building: the snow is grey, the cigarettes are bitter, and words cut colder than the wind. And in the midst of this, there is a strange attachment, like a fight and tenderness at the same time, where swearing sounds warmer than compliments.

The song is like two people trying to warm each other, even when the frost is already creeping in from within. It's about quarrels that become a language of love, and how sometimes it's easier to admit to hatred than to admit that without this person, there is emptiness. This isn't about a perfect picture, but about a real one, bursting into tears and laughter.