NON METTERCI BECCO

The concrete sheen, the coldness of luxury watches, and the smoke lazily curling between phrases. Everything seems to slow down as if the nite decided to put on blue-tinted glasses and become cinematic. Here, boasting doesn't sound like a pose, but like a survivor's mantra: "I am, therefore I have overcome." The contrast between wealth and the ghetto dissolves in a single breath, from the jingle of bracelets to the muffled bass that presses against your chest but warms you from within. There's no morality in this sound, but there is confidence, forged in asphalt and smoke. Everything around moves according to its own laws of gravity, where authority is measured not by words, but by the weight of chains and the number of "psh"s spent at the studio. The world is slippery, dangerous, but strangely cozy in it: everything is honest, everything is in its place.