Shamballa

Somewhere between the club smoke and the sound of an iPhone at the bottom of a bag, that very night remained - slightly cloying, slightly loud, like someone else's perfume on a shirt. Everything was simple in it: glances caught each other faster than thoughts had time to kick in. Then there was no need for words, only rhythm and closeness on the exhale. And now there is nostalgia with a slight taste of ‘it could have been.’ He is a bad man without romance, she is a bad gyal with character, and neither of them has the right to be weak. Only memories that turn on like a favourite track at four in the morning - when it seems that everything can still be rewound.