Los cuervos se lo pasan bien

Reaching the bottom and finding a wing there is a delicate absurdity of fate: letting go of someone's hand, inventing another life for yourself and taking flight, because otherwise you would have to be someone else's copy. A migratory bird that is both lost and blessed at the same time; in this strange balance between disappointment and the road, an almost domestic habit emerges - carrying a mixture of pain and hope with you, like a blanket on a cold train.

The night scene turns into a dance with demons, where ‘no, no, no’ is not a protest, but a mantra that helps you not to wake up before your time. A smile is like a small feat: standing on your feet when there are still clouds above your head and crows flying nearby, jumping for joy. A mixture of sadness and fortune - as if it were sad, but happier because you know how to carry on.