Dracula

It's the night when the world seems a little fake - as if someone has turned up the brightness and contrast. The streets are gleaming, just like in a movie where the hero is too handsome to be real. The air smells of regret and gasoline, and the sky is slowly turning a treacherous blue. I want to hide from the dawn like from an awkward witness - not to see how the light dispels the illusion. There's a special magic in trying to escape the morning, even though it will catch up with you anyway. When friends call you into the car, but inside everything is aching: "Wait, I haven't finished talking to the night yet." And it's kind of funny that you feel like Dracula on the run, but you still run - not from the sun, but from having to be yourself again. And for now - darkness, music, and that very line between madness and freedom. When every moment lived shines with a dangerous brilliance, and damn, the view is truly impressive.