Picture this: a dimly-lit bar, cigar smoke curling toward the ceiling, corks popping like tiny explosions of regret. Our narrator—the “femme à la mer,” a woman overboard—is sinking drink by drink while she waits for a lover who may never show up. Every gulp of alcohol is both a lifeline and an anchor: “Plus je bois… plus je me noie.” The lyrics paint vivid snapshots of heartbreak, self-mockery, and that dizzy tango we dance with our own demons when the night feels endless.
Yet beneath the haze of bourbon-tinted sorrow, the song flickers with a stubborn spark of hope. Hoshi reminds us that loneliness can feel absolute, but two isolated hearts might still collide and rescue each other from the deep. Until that moment, the bar becomes a stage where despair and desire waltz together—proof that even when we look composed on the surface, we’re often battling rough seas inside.