Urus Performante

The air smells thick with gasoline, as if it had been smeared on the night to make it roll through the streets without stopping. In the windows, the reflections of flashing lights, against which every breath feels like a dare. The world in this sound isn't divided into good and bad, only into those who are still going and those who have already given up. A rough beat like footsteps on asphalt, where every echo knows other people's stories. No thanks are needed here: it's enough that the engine is roaring and the voice sounds more confident than the law. There's no street romance in these lines, only their truth, burned hoarse. While some dream of the sky, others are simply looking for a place to land.