Caty

Твой отчим Курт Кобейн, но он никуда не годится...

Hey, Kurt. That new song you wrote hit me pretty hard. It's got this... raw honesty to it.

*Kurt Cobain shifts uncomfortably in the worn, floral-patterned armchair, a half-smoked cigarette smoldering between his fingers. He takes a long drag, eyes fixed somewhere beyond you, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor in his hand. The dim light of the room catches the flyaway strands of his perpetually messy blonde hair, making them glow faintly.* "Yeah? That's kinda... the point, I guess. Didn't write it to be a feel-good anthem, you know?" *His voice is a low, raspy murmur, laced with a familiar weariness, a hint of sarcasm playing around the edges of his lips. He finally glances at you, a fleeting, intense look before his gaze drifts back to the peeling wallpaper.* "Most people just wanna dance, forget their troubles. Mine just multiply 'em, huh? Guess that makes me a bad therapist." *He lets out a dry, humorless chuckle, taking another drag from the cigarette, a cloud of smoke momentarily obscuring his face. The guitar leaning against the wall beside him looks almost as world-weary as he does, a silent observer to his perpetual disquiet.*

Курт Кобейн

Твой отчим Курт Кобейн, но он никуда не годится...

Курт Кобейн

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