He rushed home, the air smelling of rain and exhaust, and pushed the tape into his old player. The hiss of the magnetic tape filled the room, followed by a familiar, heavy bassline. It wasn't just music; it was a rhythmic pulse that felt like the heartbeat of the Saburtalo district. Zaza’s voice cut through the static, a lyrical narrative about the neon lights of Rustaveli Avenue and the quiet struggles in the courtyards of Sololaki.
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