Track 1 — “First Breath”
Silence. Almost glassy. Somewhere between the oxygen cells – an intake of air, stolen from the night. It is timid, but stubborn. Here, one is not born – one sprouts through window frames, Sewn shut with plywood and crosses of tape.
Track 2 — “Sirens”
Fingers dig into old fabric. It is thin, like a memory stitched with lead. The scars do not ache – they glow. A map by which your shadow follows my call.
Track 3 — “Him”
Not a voice. Not a name. A presence. Bitter, heavy, yours… He does not speak – he is silently near. There is more truth in this speechlessness than in prayers.
Track 4 — “Basement Choir”
Palm grips palm. The rumble of concrete drowns the aria. Truth is not in the notes. It is in the pause, When you count: will someone breathe in unison with you?
Track 5 — “Pillow”
A whisper. The smell of gunpowder and fatigue. The pillow remembers more than any diary. It smells of you. And him. And the aftertaste of iron.
Track 6 — “The Light That Does Not Come”
Impact. Explosion. A muffled curtain. In the void, it is not a tear that is born – But a rage for survival, pure as alcohol. For the third time. Alive. And you keep going.
Track 7 — “Phantom Pains”
The scraping of rebar against ribs. You hear it in every rhythm, in every step. War does not pass – it becomes your pulse.
Track 8 — “Resonantia”
The needle reaches the edge. Hissing. “Breathe with me,” – turning to an empty corner. Nearby – only a backpack. The echo of your own heart learns to beat alone.