He thought about the walk home from his day job—the gray concrete of the Soviet-era apartments, the smell of rain on asphalt, and the faces of people who looked just as tired as he felt. He wrote for them, but mostly, he wrote to keep his own soul intact.
By the time the sun began to bleed orange over the Vitosha mountain, the song was finished. He hadn't changed the world, and he hadn't made a million leva. But as he looked at the lyrics, he knew he had done something harder. In a world that demanded he be anyone else, KingSize had decided to remain himself. kingsize_ostavam_sebe_si
"They want the crown, but not the thorns," he muttered, scribbling a new line. He thought about the walk home from his