демоны Mylancore Remix

The night seemed to have frozen, hesitant to breathe loudly. The air is thick with tobacco smoke, remnants of sleep, and a strange silence, the kind that buzzes in your head like an echo. It feels like just a little more and thoughts will start dripping from the ceiling, thick, sticky, unspoken. Demons don't hide under the bed, they've long been settled in your chest, in the rhythm of your heart, in the trembling of your hands when you look in the mirror and aren't entirely sure who's there. The cigarette burns down to the filter, as if counting the seconds between "I still can" and "I can't anymore." It's all happening again: promises to myself, attempts to fall asleep, conversations with those who aren't here but who seem to still be listening. The world is slightly distorted, like film shot with an old camera, and it contains so much tired tenderness even towards its own fears. After all, if you're going to dance with demons, at least let it be to your favourite tune.