aspiryna

The smell of petrol, the noise of the city and a little bit of romanticism – that's the recipe for a strange kind of calm. When life resembles a series of repetitions of ‘everything is under control,’ but inside, that same anxiety still gnaws away, which cannot be cured by anything except another ‘aspirin.’ Not from the head - from thoughts.

It's funny: it seems like everything is there - trainers, the city, even summer somewhere outside the window. But still, you're not warmed by the sun, but by a memory that burns hotter than diesel in a tank. It's a state that's neither sadness nor joy, but simply a quiet overheating of the soul. And all that's left is to pour another dose - not of alcohol, but of self-irony - and let it warm up at least something alive under the skin.