Пошлю его на… (Acoustic Version)

The night smells of thunderstorms and wet asphalt, time stretches like an old rubber cord. Words are just water, and eyes search for answers where there are none: in the silence, in the trembling sky, in the pause between thunder and lightning. The desire is simple and at the same time ridiculous - to send someone to the sky for a star, as if the universe had an express delivery service for miracles.

Repetition is like counting heartbeats: ‘another painful day will pass and I will want to live.’ This is not a promise, it is a small instruction for survival: take hope for a worn-out suitcase, put ironic optimism in it and wave your hand at some star. A little naive, a little brave - the perfect combination for a sleepless night.

There is no drama of great deeds here, only everyday magic - send, wait, exhale. Irony smiles gently, because even if the star is late, the desire to live again makes itself heard louder than a thunderstorm.