Visiera A Becco

The city is buzzing, as if someone forgot to pause life. The guys in beak-shaped baseball caps are running, wearing sneakers that have seen more asphalt than school. Each has their own map, but they all have the same route: away from boredom and closer to survival. The streets are filled with hot air and unspoken words. Dreams of normalcy with a house, a dog, and children's laughter dissolve into the rhythm of beats and sirens. It seems someone still believes everything can be changed, but the headlights cut hope in half. The streets only feed those who know how to run, and they beat those who linger even for a moment. These sounds aren't just hip-hop; they're the weariness of a generation that doesn't expect salvation. They hide not armour, but faces under their caps. And only at night, when the engine falls silent, can you hear your heart beating its rhythm: not a hero, not a saint, just someone who wants to live to see the morning.