November Has Come

The world seems to be suspended between fog and old radio static. The rhythm is something lazy and pulsating, like the heart of a tired metropolis that still hasn't figured out whether it's asleep or living by inertia. Words scatter in the air like cigarette ash: they seem to have meaning, but you don't want to catch it - just let it swirl above your head. In every sound there is the slight grime of the streets, the dampness of basements and a special charm of a tired genius who knows too much to be loud.

And when the line about November sounds, it becomes clear that it's not about the month. It's about that time when everything has already happened, but you haven't decided yet whether to miss it. The music goes on like an old bus idling: it creaks, it sways, but it takes you somewhere further. And in this loose honesty there is a rare calmness - the kind that comes when you no longer have to pretend that everything is under control.