Piano

The piano whispers like a coquette in the dim light, while everything around it screams - glass, engines, fans pointing their fingers, as if life were an eternal performance. It's important not to ask questions here: just follow the radio, lie down on the tracks of the melody and let the guitar drown out the delicate keys. Tenderness and boasting go hand in hand - champagne in the salon, slight insomnia and the feeling that every glance at the banknotes turns an ordinary metre of time into a scene.

The evening is like a long path where what should have healed still glitters with scars; the bill is paid or not paid - the rules change as you go. All this is perceived with warm irony: as if no one is to blame except the night and bad acoustics, and in the end, it is enough to turn up the piano and drive on until the sound lulls you to sleep.