Gotham

The city hums like an engine without a clutch; every breath smells of asphalt, fear, and arrogance. Milan is like a neon battlefield: suits instead of armour, bullets in rhymes, empty arena streets. Everyone here is playing the hero, but the masks have long since become part of their faces, and it's no longer clear who's saving and who's just shooting first. Brutality is presented with theatrical pathos in the voices of freedom's rasp, mixed with the roar of motor beasts and the jingle of a ring that promises no love. Each verse is like a shot at the ceiling, checking for an echo, if anyone is alive up there. Milan is not just a city, but my personal "Gotham," where salvation and damnation hide in the same bar, at neighbouring tables.