OCCHIAIE

The city breathes with drafts and neon fatigue. The moon hangs over the streets, as if it has dark circles under its eyes from insomnia – the same as everyone else who stayed out a little longer than they should have that night. Between the shop windows are unfamiliar faces, coldness, and the plastic smiles of mannequins that seem more alive than the passersby. The music wanders with the homeless person: a little drunk, a little sad, but still stubborn - singing as long as there's air. And in this crooked dance with the reflection on the wet asphalt, something very human suddenly slips through: laughter that sounds like a plea for warmth. The night clings to my eyes like thick smoke, but somewhere beneath this darkness, a thought stirs quietly – the bottom has been reached, which means the only way from here is up.