Parle moi

The world seems to have frozen between the neon lights of shop windows and the overcast sky of the outskirts. Here, they don't count small change - only losses. And even love is measured not in gestures, but in how much silence one can endure. Fatigue is woven into his voice, but you can still hear the stubborn ‘I'm alive’ in it. Not for likes, not for fame - simply because there is no choice.

It sounds like late at night in a car park - when the engine has long been turned off, but thoughts are still racing around in circles. The city is noisy somewhere in the distance, Mum is probably awake again, and inside, everything is spinning around the same thing: don't stray from the path, even if it goes through a storm.