Dreckig & Gemein

The night smells of light bulbs and cheap whisky, and one rule keeps spinning in my head: either become tough or disappear. Here, love is more often betrayal in expensive packaging, and good and evil are traded like relatives: enemies and family are close by, and no one cares. A festive toast on a gravestone rolls off the tongue as easily as a promise not to show weakness - a poker face, and once again, only survival is in sight.

The streets teach you to count not words, but deeds: ten against one - and in such a count, it is not customary to complain. A knife does not show off, it works silently; dreams turn into stones, and those turn into jewels if you put patience and luck on them. It's funny and sad at the same time - the night city gives warmth, but always with a scar: someone is in prison, someone is in a club, someone is spending their birthday alone.

There is a strange tenderness in this: the light in the room when it is dark outside, the little habit of drinking ‘one more’ and letting go of the past piece by piece. The world is unfair - and this is not a discovery, but rather a rule of the game. And all that remains is to learn to walk through it with your back straight, a smile on your lips and a touch of irony in your pocket.