Old Fashion

Each verse smells of gasoline and perfume from a cheap shopfront, a mixture of survival and ostentatious glitter. The voice sounds as if it has passed through all the "old-fashioned" shop windows and is standing on the sidewalk with a new engine and the same old pain. Everything around seems to have changed, but inside, it's the same concrete courtyards where respect is measured not by words, but by scars and label-less sneakers. Through the showy bravado, fatigue emerges, as if each line is writing a check for my mother's years of work. Lost love, the attempt to "heal," the smell of cigarettes in the entranceway – it all sounds like a coming-of-age chronicle without instructions. The music is thumping, as if protecting from the silence, and hidden beneath the rhythm is a simple admission: coming "from nothing" doesn't mean forgetting where you came from.