Kalashnikov

The palm seems to have tamed the metal - cold, confident, like an old friend of night-time parties and insomnia. Bottles, empty glasses and a new dose of risk lie nearby; the sound of champagne bubbles like a pulse, and the Kalashnikov on the bedside table becomes an absurd safety toy. Everything is mixed up here: titanium on a hangover, cards in black and red, a bet at Tipico and attempts to fall asleep sober - and in this chaos, a strange, almost tender habit of danger emerges.

The voice in the text speaks not of the hero's romanticism, but of the habits of the big city: talkativeness instead of action, an empty wallet, and currency that becomes nothing but scars and experience. Ironically warm - as if smiling through clenched teeth: ‘don't worry, serious decisions can wait until you've had another drink.’ Life on the edge, where the choice between love and injury smells like someone's wardrobe from yesterday - fresh, dirty and almost homely.