Pussy Palace

Sometimes even the subway becomes an accomplice in the drama. You're driving along, running late, your thoughts jumping from irritation to relief - because finally, everything is decided. And then - the key in the lock, the door opens, and reality turns into an 18+ rated TV series. In the frame: a box of letters, a bed that knows no rest, and a collection worthy of a museum display titled "How Not to Live." Somewhere on the verge of hysteria and comedy, clarity is born: everything that seemed like home turned out to be a branch of "Pussy Palace." Awkward, loud, almost funny - like a scene after which you no longer cry, but laugh through the smoke. And yes, there's an aesthetic to this disaster - glossy, sticky, but honest.