MANESKIN

Everything is glittering, buzzing, and spinning, as if the city is on cocaine and neon. A world where money smells like sulphur and confidence like expensive perfume. The words sound like the clicks of a lighter: sharp, self-satisfied, with a slight aftertaste of permissiveness. Here, every verse is a toast to oneself, to audacity, to having succeeded. The music is thumping like an engine under the hood of a Lambo, relentlessly, with a steady heartbeat that long ago stopped caring about norms. Between the lines, a longing breaks through, masked as boasting: as if all the luxury is just an analgesic for something that can no longer be cured. Everything is beautiful, glossy, and a little crazy, just like life that has been played live for too long.