Hotel Room

It smells of chlorine, champagne, and eternal youth, which doesn't acknowledge tomorrow. Everything dissolves in the jacuzzi foam - shame, boundaries, and even the memory of other people's names. Laughter bounces off the tiles like a bubble and bursts before it becomes regret. The air is thick with sweet smoke and promises that no one intends to keep. The party turns into a wordless confession - bodies speak instead of voices, and everyone seems to become the main character of a music video for a moment, where luxury and debauchery are just a backdrop for boredom. It's a bit vulgar, a bit funny, but desperately alive. After all, someone has to remind you what life sounds like at maximum volume, even if all that's left in the morning is a ringing in your ears and a hotel number on your wrist.