KAYKAY

The night is like a shop window - the roof is lowered, the wind is silky, and banknotes and responsibilities jingle in your pockets. Bodrum and Istanbul on one map: beach glamour neighbours underground affairs, ice around your neck, courage in your eyes, PayPal passwords in your pocket. The music rings out evenly, like the score on the scoreboard, and in the words - the score for all the luxury and all the miscalculations; laughter rings out sceptically, as if the dress were wearing a bulletproof vest.

Here, every flexible flex is paid for with a little anxiety: police lights, business calls from ‘the boys,’ a passing story with bullets and court, and yet - the desire to stay young and not become just a line in a report. Irony gently warms: all these attacks are like an accessory to a life that laughs loudly and quietly counts its scars. The beat feeds the rhythm of footsteps on the asphalt - and it seems that this very rhythm can cure fatigue better than the promised millions.