Dein Leben ist gefickt

The night city is like luxury fast food: the glint of gold chains, the smell of marijuana on the balcony, the jingle of Burberry keys and torn life hacks for surviving in the club world. Here, every verse is like a checklist of other people's mistakes and victories: bragging, trash, semi-funny moments of failure, and remarks about ‘your life is a fiasco, mate.’ It sounds bold and a little cynical, but it is in this rasp that the living texture of the street lies: sometimes funny, sometimes crude, and sometimes just humanly pitiful.

Under the mask of cheeky humour lies a cosy weariness: much has been done, little is truly important, and it all resembles a late coffee in a motel after a concert. Laughter glides over the synthesiser, and irony is gently superimposed on the crunch of reality - it seems like ‘everything is lost,’ but at the same time, it is strangely warm to watch this circus. It feels like it is not idealism that rules here, but the ability to laugh at one's own chaos.