I live in Kyiv, near a wide avenue where the roadway carries a small imperfection. Each time a truck with a metal body strikes that hollow, the sound echoes like a distant blast — a phantom reminder of missile strikes. At night, the city sometimes trembles with the roar of machine‑gun fire, as the guns shoot down Shahed drones.
One night I woke up to what seemed an explosion. Lying still, I wondered: was it only a truck jolting into the hollow, or had another attack begun? The crackling of machine‑gun fire followed, convincing me that unrest had returned. Yet suddenly the noise ceased, and silence reclaimed the night. My agitation softened, and sleep slowly embraced me again.
Morning arrived with light filtering through the window. Once more I woke to the rhythm of machine‑gun fire — but this time it was the gentle snoring of our Chihuahua, echoing like distant bursts of a machine gun. Checking my phone, I saw no alarms, no alerts. The night had been quiet after all: only the rumble of trucks and the breath of a small dog.
From that fragile passage between fear and relief, I sat at the synthesizer and began to compose. Another musical storylife was born — a sad yet cheerful tale, shaped by the conditions we have endured for four years.