祈り花

It sounds like late evening in Paris, when everything is slightly blurred - from the street lights, from the wine, from thoughts that are not about work. The words flow softly, unhurriedly, as if dancing on the border between reality and dreams. There is no plot here, only mood: a little indistinct, a little sly, with that French ‘whatever, but beautiful’ attitude.

The music glides through the air like cigarette smoke from a bar window - subtle, lazy, with a hint of something incomprehensible but attractive. It seems that everything has already been said, but for some reason you want to keep listening - just to stay inside this soft chaos a little longer.