Umore marea

My pulse goes up and down in rhythm, like the tide that can't decide whether to stay or wash everything away. The air is thick with unspoken words and heat, as if feelings overheated the engine and then were forgotten about cooling down. There's only one note between "I love you" and "I'll kill you," but it sounds damn beautiful when fatigue sings. The street noise becomes a backdrop for the internal swings: a little anger, a little longing, and a little more of that strange calm that comes when you've stopped fighting. Everything has long been mixed together: cigarette smoke, summer dust, and the bitter habit of returning to where it already hurt. But that's where music truly lives, where everything is unstable, but genuinely so.