La capucha

It smells of fatigue and the road. It's as if everyone is familiar, but no one is allowed to come within three metres. The chain glitters, the engine warms up, somewhere under the T-shirt the habit of holding on pulsates - not for show, but because there is no other way to survive.

His voice is a mixture of armoured calm and quiet melancholy: everything seems to be going according to plan, but the plan has long since become just a way to keep from falling apart. Money is flowing, the stage is noisy, the audience is shouting, but inside it is hollow, like an alley after a music video shoot.

He is not a king, not a saint, and not even a hero - just a guy who holds the wheel and holds himself together. And under the ‘capou’ is not only a hat, but also armour from a world where everyone wants a piece of him. And yet, in every line, there is a tiny signal: I am alive, I am moving forward, I am touching the ground, I am feeling.