Rome above the streets 02
In a 1930s building, in the heart of San Giovanni, Erik climbs the stairs to the eighth floor.
He is wearing only a jockstrap — Nero, by Antinoo.
From the DO NOT WASH collection.
The rooftop opens like a forgotten stage.
A forest of antennas cuts through the grey sky. Satellite dishes search for distant signals.
Rome stretches below — vast, ancient, indifferent.
The morning is overcast.
The kind of morning that promises cold.
But height excites the body.
Concrete against skin.
Wind across the chest.
The entire city lying beneath his feet.
Up here, everything feels sharper.
Every surface more present.
Iron.
Stone.
Humidity.
He turns the tap.
Water spills from the metal faucet into the old sink — a brutal object bolted into the architecture.
He washes his hands.
Slowly.
Like Pilate.
As if water could erase the weight of choice.
As if a simple gesture could dissolve responsibility.
The jockstrap label says it clearly:
DO NOT WASH.
Because some stains are sacred.
Because some mornings should remain on the skin.
Because Rome remembers everything.
And because the body —
like the city —
is meant to carry its marks.
