The dream is always the same.

I’m standing before a supercar, its carbon fiber skin gleaming under a single light. I slide into the cockpit, a perfect fit. The engine starts—not a sound, but a vibration that becomes a low roar.

Then, I’m on the road. My foot presses the throttle, and the world dissolves into a blur of force and noise. It’s not driving; it’s flying an inch above the asphalt, a perfect, violent dance with physics. Every shift of the gearbox is a crack of lightning. Every corner is a conversation with gravity I win.

Then I wake up. The roar is gone, replaced by silence. But the feeling lingers—a ghost of speed in my hands, a promise of a masterpiece waiting.