Бус

Did you think the city was sleeping? No, the city is devouring.

Devouring it whole.

A hood over your eyes—did you think it turned into smoke?

We've sketched you.

Here, your pulse pounds in your temples while the sky is leaden blue.

My wife texts, "Where are you?" and the line echoes with the rumble of emptiness.

The subscriber is offline.

Behind you, it's not footsteps—it's the scraping of a steel line.

There it stands. No numbers, no unnecessary symbols.

A black roll-up.

The door slid aside—smoothly, without unnecessary fears.

It's a white minibus. A trap. An iron jaw.

Shadows under the windows wait for you to fall.

There are no passersby here—only a target in the crosshairs.

You're trapped. [Chorus]

24/7—you're a thing, you're cargo, you're nothing.

Written off as a scrap heap.

Left alone? Consider your time up.

They pack here in silence—not a shout, not a swing.

Just a crunch.

People—drops in the mud. The asphalt knows no fear.

24/7—the headlights hurt your pupils.

Run if you can.

Do you hear your whispers? Then you're hooked, fools.

The streets are keeping score. They don't need your lawyer.

The count is closed.

Once a man—now news. Period. A return. [Verse 2]

Someone walked around the corners—and simply dropped out of frame.

He was there and then disappeared.

"He got in the car himself"—that's your whole truth.

Now he's in a minibus. There are no windows, no clocks. Don't breathe.

There's such silence there—it tears the last bolt from the soul.

A chalk mark on the wall is no child's play.

Your end.

Whoever froze in the archway has carved pity into themselves.

Eyes from behind the curtains register the price of your head.

Behind the closed door, all bridges have already been burned.

Forget about vows and about "our own" in the neighborhood.

There are no "our own."

Here, "our own" are those who keep you in a corner.

Your things, your appearance—just trash for the landfill.

Everything for the trash.

The main brand is Fear. And it hits without a jump rope.

The tea has grown cold in the kitchen. The wife catches shadows in the window.

Insomnia.

There, they play a movie about you and fire 24/7.

You meandered through the courtyards, changed the pace, confused your tracks. It didn't work.

But the traps are set. The city doesn't tolerate water.

This white minibus is your new, final limit.

The walls are closing in.

Everything you built remains where you didn't have time.

They won't ask your name here. They won't look at your face here.

Darkness.

Only the rumble of the engine and a prickly ring in your throat.

Inside, it smells of burning and old, dusty upholstery.

Faces in shadow. Your life has simply been a mistake.

The floor beneath your feet trembles, the diesel fuel hammers your temples.

You're not a guest here. You're a detail nailed to the boards.

The light from the street lamps cuts a strip of light across the floor through a crack.

You see the asphalt, but you can no longer find your target.

Your "tomor