FLASHBACK

Love here smells not of perfume, but of petrol and smoke - fast, predatory, like a night on the motorway without headlights. Everything hangs in the balance between risk and memory, where instead of confessions there are brief glances and the jingle of coins. There is no room for drama in the heart, but for some reason, there is still a ‘we’ living there. It appears in flashes - when the city is asleep and the mind is switched off, when the past returns like a message without text. And even if there is not a single blue ticket, nor any certainty about tomorrow, there is this strange agreement between fatigue and desire: to live fast, love briefly, and remember longer than one should.