Pilote

The smell of gasoline in the nite, the windows are half-open, the city is like a film reel where each scene shimmers in neon. It's not about feelings here - it's about inertia. When the engine roars louder than thoughts, and silence is too expensive. Everything seems to be under control, but inside, it's the eternal "mission mode": earn, be on time, don't get caught, don't fall in love. He laughs, but his eyes don't smile - he's just used to everything, even love, being measured by the euro exchange rate. The girl next to me is beautiful, dazzling like a magazine cover, but she also knows the price of sleepless nites and conversations where words are replaced by banknotes. The beat rolls smoothly, like wheels on asphalt after rain, and somewhere within that hum, there's a strange calm. The kind that comes to those who haven't sought peace in a long time.