Pélican

It smells of freedom, gasoline, and slight fatigue from endless movement. Everything seems to hang on a promise - day, night, another deal with fate. Here, they don't wait for peace, but they know the taste of flight, even if their wings are burned by the lights of the big city.

Each line is like a step away from old habits toward something new, not entirely understood, but their own. Between “hanging out” and “getting stuck” lies the same question: how much longer can you keep spinning around before you finally feel like you've broken free? And even if this flight is only above a gray area, it's still real. The little pelican is flying too, just a little below the clouds.