ONZ

The engine roars as if a diplomatic mission were hidden under the bonnet. Each one comes from a different corner of the planet, but they all share the same citizenship: the street. There are no languages here, only bass, petrol and slang. Instead of mantras, there are brands; instead of prayers, there are verses; instead of white flags, there are white crossovers.

The air smells of Dior and replica gunpowder. The world tries to explain the difference between ‘ghetto’ and ‘ghettomania,’ but they just step on the gas and come to an agreement in their own way - loudly, confidently, to the rhythm of AMG. Even the UN would envy such diplomacy: all nations, one beat, and zero chance of going unnoticed.