RUINART

The night dragged on again, sticky like smoke from cheap cigars and conversations that are not worth recording. Somewhere far away, clubs, flickering windows, promises of ‘later’ and messages without replies. Everything is spinning around - the motor, the rhythm, thoughts - but inside there is only a hum and a slight irritation, as if the world has frozen mid-sentence.

It seems that everything has long been decided: who is below, who is above, who is waiting for their chance by the tower. This isn't about romance - it's about nerves, about surviving beautifully while the music keeps you afloat. And somewhere between the bass and the petrol, a spark slips through - short, like a breath before a quarrel, and warm, like the last sip from someone else's glass.