DUOMO

Milan cuts smoothly like a diamond on glass. The city that doesn't smile at everyone, only at those who run faster than the rain. Beneath the glitter of the shop windows are scars, beneath the skin of luxury is concrete. But look at the lights of the Duomo after a rain shower, and it becomes clear: love for this hell is possible if you've learnt not to fall. The sound is rumbling, like the heavy, stubborn rustle of banknotes in a pocket, soaked in sweat and confidence. Each line is a vow of the survivor, who is their own cross, their own salvation. There are no princes in this music, only people with gunpowder on their hands and chains on their hearts. Milan doesn't forgive them, but rewards those who don't ask for mercy.