sometimes feel like an old fork of bicycle and pedal across the border. go beyond it. breathe and never return back. I think the bike obsession. freedom, poverty, work, hope, to the efforts to unite and to feed this country. love. death. to the people. I do not want to celebrate. even if the sounds from the street I warm up. there is still life. it deprecates humanity. depressed culture. at this time. the time has come to take the future with the sleeves rolled up, to render respect to Italy. to exit the degradation of masked beauty. maybe a bike ride relaxes me. imagine a flag flying light the handlebar. the wind is obstinate and contrary. the central part of the fabric covers my face. I see only white. not yield. asking to be painted in new colors 
