Prędkość we krwi

At night, the city is like a Christmas tree - blinking, sparkling, promising something it won't deliver anyway. The asphalt roars under the wheels, the wind tears thoughts to shreds, and suddenly - that very freedom arrives, the lack of which in ordinary life is felt to the point of convulsions. You don't have to be perfect here, you don't have to explain anything. Just the engine, my pulse, and the hum of music in my ears, which drowns out even my own doubts. There's a special honesty in that speed. When the rules fade into the background, and every kilometre feels like a sigh of relief after holding on for too long. Some might call it recklessness, but for some, it's the only way to feel their heart hasn't given up yet.