Air Max

It's as if night and glamour have made peace in the backstreets of the city: the smell of yellow smoke, the sticky shine of lipstick on skin, and cries from windowsills that sound like the soundtrack to aggressive nostalgia. Shoes covered in blood on Air Max laces, a Lamborghini racing through empty streets, and the promise ‘I'll quit tomorrow’ looks as sincere as a joke receipt - funny and touching in its own way.

The sound is like a diary from behind handcuffs: brave bravado alongside vulnerable ‘out of it,’ soft-faced judges and friends who scatter at dawn. All this luxury of guilty dreams - and there is warmth in it, as if someone is still keeping the light on while the world tries to fall asleep.