Prosty Chłopak

Grey blocks, grey skies, grey everyday life – but inside, everything pulsates as if someone has turned life up to full volume. There is no room for lyricism here: the asphalt smells of sweat and exhaust fumes, and dreams are measured not in kilometres, but in chances survived. Every word carries a hint of fatigue and pride, like those who have climbed out of the mud but haven't forgotten where they came from. The music roars like an engine under the windows - hoarse, stubborn, with a hint of champagne in the taste of victory and the echo of an old Nokia somewhere in the past. It's simple: he's a guy from the block, but the world around him no longer seems so grey.