Name the Band

The world spins, flashes and scatters into flashes, like a light bulb that is long overdue for a rest. Somewhere between words and noise, a feeling of fragility arises - as if someone is holding a star in their bare hands and is afraid it will burn them. Everything sounds soft, almost affectionate, but with a crack - the very one through which you can see: the pain is not loud, just quietly alive.

It's like a conversation on the verge of sleep - a little disjointed, with repetitions, as if trying to convince: ‘I didn't mean to, really.’ The light flickers, the rhythm whispers, and somewhere in the background there remains warmth - not from forgiveness, but from simple human ‘regret’.