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lainoan
Josu Alberdi
Producción visual editorial
Deporte · Motor · Territorio
El arte de sentirse vivo
Esto es Jeréz. Escalofríos, ruido, nervios en la espera, gente al límite..
Aquí va mi muestra de respeto por todo eso. Orgulloso de haberla hecho. Agradecido de estar pudiendo acercarme cada vez más a historias así.
Poco a poco.
Here go some experimental pics:
Some rides are about entering that quiet place where the road, body and machine start speaking the same language.
Cold air. Wet asphalt.
The sound of rubber and carbon carving through the bends.
Somewhere between effort and silence, you realise that cycling is about becoming part of the road.
Performance sometimes looks like this.
Here go some experimental pics:
Some rides are about entering that quiet place where the road, body and machine start speaking the same language.
Cold air. Wet asphalt.
The sound of rubber and carbon carving through the bends.
Somewhere between effort and silence, you realise that cycling is about becoming part of the road.
Performance sometimes looks like this.
Here go some experimental pics:
Some rides are about entering that quiet place where the road, body and machine start speaking the same language.
Cold air. Wet asphalt.
The sound of rubber and carbon carving through the bends.
Somewhere between effort and silence, you realise that cycling is about becoming part of the road.
Performance sometimes looks like this.
Here go some experimental pics:
Some rides are about entering that quiet place where the road, body and machine start speaking the same language.
Cold air. Wet asphalt.
The sound of rubber and carbon carving through the bends.
Somewhere between effort and silence, you realise that cycling is about becoming part of the road.
Performance sometimes looks like this.
Here go some experimental pics:
Some rides are about entering that quiet place where the road, body and machine start speaking the same language.
Cold air. Wet asphalt.
The sound of rubber and carbon carving through the bends.
Somewhere between effort and silence, you realise that cycling is about becoming part of the road.
Performance sometimes looks like this.
Here go some experimental pics:
Some rides are about entering that quiet place where the road, body and machine start speaking the same language.
Cold air. Wet asphalt.
The sound of rubber and carbon carving through the bends.
Somewhere between effort and silence, you realise that cycling is about becoming part of the road.
Performance sometimes looks like this.
Here go some experimental pics:
Some rides are about entering that quiet place where the road, body and machine start speaking the same language.
Cold air. Wet asphalt.
The sound of rubber and carbon carving through the bends.
Somewhere between effort and silence, you realise that cycling is about becoming part of the road.
Performance sometimes looks like this.
Here go some experimental pics:
Some rides are about entering that quiet place where the road, body and machine start speaking the same language.
Cold air. Wet asphalt.
The sound of rubber and carbon carving through the bends.
Somewhere between effort and silence, you realise that cycling is about becoming part of the road.
Performance sometimes looks like this.
Here go some experimental pics:
Some rides are about entering that quiet place where the road, body and machine start speaking the same language.
Cold air. Wet asphalt.
The sound of rubber and carbon carving through the bends.
Somewhere between effort and silence, you realise that cycling is about becoming part of the road.
Performance sometimes looks like this.
Some riders deserve to be photographed like rockstars.
Not because they chase the spotlight, but because the spotlight seems to follow them anyway.
Fred is one of those people.
His stage isn’t an arena.
It’s the outdoors.
That day I encountered Fred’s concrete floors, tools hanging on the wall, the quiet ritual of preparing a bike the way a guitarist tunes his instrument before the show.
Every movement carries a strange mix of delicacy and obsession.
The way he looks at the bike.
The way he touches the frame.
The patience in cleaning, adjusting, preparing.
It’s the kind of devotion you only see in people who have truly fallen in love with something.
For Fred, the bicycle isn’t just a machine.
It’s closer to what a guitar once was to the rockstars that filled the pages of old music magazines.
An extension of the self.
A vehicle for freedom.
A reason to disappear for hours and come back with stories written in dust and sweat.
So I photographed him the only way that felt honest.
Low light.
Grain.
A little bit of chaos.
A little bit of poetry.
Somewhere between the smell of grease, the cold metal and the quiet anticipation of the next ride.
And of course, a small guest appearance by Jimmy, my dog, who insisted on being part of the session like any proper backstage companion.
Because every rockstar needs a loyal presence in the room.
And every bike deserves to be treated like the instrument it truly is.
Some riders deserve to be photographed like rockstars.
Not because they chase the spotlight, but because the spotlight seems to follow them anyway.
Fred is one of those people.
His stage isn’t an arena.
It’s the outdoors.
That day I encountered Fred’s concrete floors, tools hanging on the wall, the quiet ritual of preparing a bike the way a guitarist tunes his instrument before the show.
Every movement carries a strange mix of delicacy and obsession.
The way he looks at the bike.
The way he touches the frame.
The patience in cleaning, adjusting, preparing.
It’s the kind of devotion you only see in people who have truly fallen in love with something.
For Fred, the bicycle isn’t just a machine.
It’s closer to what a guitar once was to the rockstars that filled the pages of old music magazines.
An extension of the self.
A vehicle for freedom.
A reason to disappear for hours and come back with stories written in dust and sweat.
So I photographed him the only way that felt honest.
Low light.
Grain.
A little bit of chaos.
A little bit of poetry.
Somewhere between the smell of grease, the cold metal and the quiet anticipation of the next ride.
And of course, a small guest appearance by Jimmy, my dog, who insisted on being part of the session like any proper backstage companion.
Because every rockstar needs a loyal presence in the room.
And every bike deserves to be treated like the instrument it truly is.
Some riders deserve to be photographed like rockstars.
Not because they chase the spotlight, but because the spotlight seems to follow them anyway.
Fred is one of those people.
His stage isn’t an arena.
It’s the outdoors.
That day I encountered Fred’s concrete floors, tools hanging on the wall, the quiet ritual of preparing a bike the way a guitarist tunes his instrument before the show.
Every movement carries a strange mix of delicacy and obsession.
The way he looks at the bike.
The way he touches the frame.
The patience in cleaning, adjusting, preparing.
It’s the kind of devotion you only see in people who have truly fallen in love with something.
For Fred, the bicycle isn’t just a machine.
It’s closer to what a guitar once was to the rockstars that filled the pages of old music magazines.
An extension of the self.
A vehicle for freedom.
A reason to disappear for hours and come back with stories written in dust and sweat.
So I photographed him the only way that felt honest.
Low light.
Grain.
A little bit of chaos.
A little bit of poetry.
Somewhere between the smell of grease, the cold metal and the quiet anticipation of the next ride.
And of course, a small guest appearance by Jimmy, my dog, who insisted on being part of the session like any proper backstage companion.
Because every rockstar needs a loyal presence in the room.
And every bike deserves to be treated like the instrument it truly is.
Some riders deserve to be photographed like rockstars.
Not because they chase the spotlight, but because the spotlight seems to follow them anyway.
Fred is one of those people.
His stage isn’t an arena.
It’s the outdoors.
That day I encountered Fred’s concrete floors, tools hanging on the wall, the quiet ritual of preparing a bike the way a guitarist tunes his instrument before the show.
Every movement carries a strange mix of delicacy and obsession.
The way he looks at the bike.
The way he touches the frame.
The patience in cleaning, adjusting, preparing.
It’s the kind of devotion you only see in people who have truly fallen in love with something.
For Fred, the bicycle isn’t just a machine.
It’s closer to what a guitar once was to the rockstars that filled the pages of old music magazines.
An extension of the self.
A vehicle for freedom.
A reason to disappear for hours and come back with stories written in dust and sweat.
So I photographed him the only way that felt honest.
Low light.
Grain.
A little bit of chaos.
A little bit of poetry.
Somewhere between the smell of grease, the cold metal and the quiet anticipation of the next ride.
And of course, a small guest appearance by Jimmy, my dog, who insisted on being part of the session like any proper backstage companion.
Because every rockstar needs a loyal presence in the room.
And every bike deserves to be treated like the instrument it truly is.
Some riders deserve to be photographed like rockstars.
Not because they chase the spotlight, but because the spotlight seems to follow them anyway.
Fred is one of those people.
His stage isn’t an arena.
It’s the outdoors.
That day I encountered Fred’s concrete floors, tools hanging on the wall, the quiet ritual of preparing a bike the way a guitarist tunes his instrument before the show.
Every movement carries a strange mix of delicacy and obsession.
The way he looks at the bike.
The way he touches the frame.
The patience in cleaning, adjusting, preparing.
It’s the kind of devotion you only see in people who have truly fallen in love with something.
For Fred, the bicycle isn’t just a machine.
It’s closer to what a guitar once was to the rockstars that filled the pages of old music magazines.
An extension of the self.
A vehicle for freedom.
A reason to disappear for hours and come back with stories written in dust and sweat.
So I photographed him the only way that felt honest.
Low light.
Grain.
A little bit of chaos.
A little bit of poetry.
Somewhere between the smell of grease, the cold metal and the quiet anticipation of the next ride.
And of course, a small guest appearance by Jimmy, my dog, who insisted on being part of the session like any proper backstage companion.
Because every rockstar needs a loyal presence in the room.
And every bike deserves to be treated like the instrument it truly is.
Some riders deserve to be photographed like rockstars.
Not because they chase the spotlight, but because the spotlight seems to follow them anyway.
Fred is one of those people.
His stage isn’t an arena.
It’s the outdoors.
That day I encountered Fred’s concrete floors, tools hanging on the wall, the quiet ritual of preparing a bike the way a guitarist tunes his instrument before the show.
Every movement carries a strange mix of delicacy and obsession.
The way he looks at the bike.
The way he touches the frame.
The patience in cleaning, adjusting, preparing.
It’s the kind of devotion you only see in people who have truly fallen in love with something.
For Fred, the bicycle isn’t just a machine.
It’s closer to what a guitar once was to the rockstars that filled the pages of old music magazines.
An extension of the self.
A vehicle for freedom.
A reason to disappear for hours and come back with stories written in dust and sweat.
So I photographed him the only way that felt honest.
Low light.
Grain.
A little bit of chaos.
A little bit of poetry.
Somewhere between the smell of grease, the cold metal and the quiet anticipation of the next ride.
And of course, a small guest appearance by Jimmy, my dog, who insisted on being part of the session like any proper backstage companion.
Because every rockstar needs a loyal presence in the room.
And every bike deserves to be treated like the instrument it truly is.
Some riders deserve to be photographed like rockstars.
Not because they chase the spotlight, but because the spotlight seems to follow them anyway.
Fred is one of those people.
His stage isn’t an arena.
It’s the outdoors.
That day I encountered Fred’s concrete floors, tools hanging on the wall, the quiet ritual of preparing a bike the way a guitarist tunes his instrument before the show.
Every movement carries a strange mix of delicacy and obsession.
The way he looks at the bike.
The way he touches the frame.
The patience in cleaning, adjusting, preparing.
It’s the kind of devotion you only see in people who have truly fallen in love with something.
For Fred, the bicycle isn’t just a machine.
It’s closer to what a guitar once was to the rockstars that filled the pages of old music magazines.
An extension of the self.
A vehicle for freedom.
A reason to disappear for hours and come back with stories written in dust and sweat.
So I photographed him the only way that felt honest.
Low light.
Grain.
A little bit of chaos.
A little bit of poetry.
Somewhere between the smell of grease, the cold metal and the quiet anticipation of the next ride.
And of course, a small guest appearance by Jimmy, my dog, who insisted on being part of the session like any proper backstage companion.
Because every rockstar needs a loyal presence in the room.
And every bike deserves to be treated like the instrument it truly is.
Some riders deserve to be photographed like rockstars.
Not because they chase the spotlight, but because the spotlight seems to follow them anyway.
Fred is one of those people.
His stage isn’t an arena.
It’s the outdoors.
That day I encountered Fred’s concrete floors, tools hanging on the wall, the quiet ritual of preparing a bike the way a guitarist tunes his instrument before the show.
Every movement carries a strange mix of delicacy and obsession.
The way he looks at the bike.
The way he touches the frame.
The patience in cleaning, adjusting, preparing.
It’s the kind of devotion you only see in people who have truly fallen in love with something.
For Fred, the bicycle isn’t just a machine.
It’s closer to what a guitar once was to the rockstars that filled the pages of old music magazines.
An extension of the self.
A vehicle for freedom.
A reason to disappear for hours and come back with stories written in dust and sweat.
So I photographed him the only way that felt honest.
Low light.
Grain.
A little bit of chaos.
A little bit of poetry.
Somewhere between the smell of grease, the cold metal and the quiet anticipation of the next ride.
And of course, a small guest appearance by Jimmy, my dog, who insisted on being part of the session like any proper backstage companion.
Because every rockstar needs a loyal presence in the room.
And every bike deserves to be treated like the instrument it truly is.
Some riders deserve to be photographed like rockstars.
Not because they chase the spotlight, but because the spotlight seems to follow them anyway.
Fred is one of those people.
His stage isn’t an arena.
It’s the outdoors.
That day I encountered Fred’s concrete floors, tools hanging on the wall, the quiet ritual of preparing a bike the way a guitarist tunes his instrument before the show.
Every movement carries a strange mix of delicacy and obsession.
The way he looks at the bike.
The way he touches the frame.
The patience in cleaning, adjusting, preparing.
It’s the kind of devotion you only see in people who have truly fallen in love with something.
For Fred, the bicycle isn’t just a machine.
It’s closer to what a guitar once was to the rockstars that filled the pages of old music magazines.
An extension of the self.
A vehicle for freedom.
A reason to disappear for hours and come back with stories written in dust and sweat.
So I photographed him the only way that felt honest.
Low light.
Grain.
A little bit of chaos.
A little bit of poetry.
Somewhere between the smell of grease, the cold metal and the quiet anticipation of the next ride.
And of course, a small guest appearance by Jimmy, my dog, who insisted on being part of the session like any proper backstage companion.
Because every rockstar needs a loyal presence in the room.
And every bike deserves to be treated like the instrument it truly is.
Dawn rides in Madrid
Dusty roads, cold air, and that quiet moment before the day really starts.
Coffee on the table, bars in the pocket, bottles ready.
The ritual is always the same.
Fuel the ride.
Chase the light.
Let the road decide the rest.
Somewhere between the first sip of coffee and the last stretch of gravel, you realize cycling isn’t just about the effort.
It’s about the small things that make the journey possible.
Good company.
A loyal four-legged supporter.
And the right fuel when the legs start asking questions.
Madrid mornings powered by @226ERS.
Dawn rides in Madrid
Dusty roads, cold air, and that quiet moment before the day really starts.
Coffee on the table, bars in the pocket, bottles ready.
The ritual is always the same.
Fuel the ride.
Chase the light.
Let the road decide the rest.
Somewhere between the first sip of coffee and the last stretch of gravel, you realize cycling isn’t just about the effort.
It’s about the small things that make the journey possible.
Good company.
A loyal four-legged supporter.
And the right fuel when the legs start asking questions.
Madrid mornings powered by @226ERS.
Dawn rides in Madrid
Dusty roads, cold air, and that quiet moment before the day really starts.
Coffee on the table, bars in the pocket, bottles ready.
The ritual is always the same.
Fuel the ride.
Chase the light.
Let the road decide the rest.
Somewhere between the first sip of coffee and the last stretch of gravel, you realize cycling isn’t just about the effort.
It’s about the small things that make the journey possible.
Good company.
A loyal four-legged supporter.
And the right fuel when the legs start asking questions.
Madrid mornings powered by @226ERS.
Dawn rides in Madrid
Dusty roads, cold air, and that quiet moment before the day really starts.
Coffee on the table, bars in the pocket, bottles ready.
The ritual is always the same.
Fuel the ride.
Chase the light.
Let the road decide the rest.
Somewhere between the first sip of coffee and the last stretch of gravel, you realize cycling isn’t just about the effort.
It’s about the small things that make the journey possible.
Good company.
A loyal four-legged supporter.
And the right fuel when the legs start asking questions.
Madrid mornings powered by @226ERS.
Dawn rides in Madrid
Dusty roads, cold air, and that quiet moment before the day really starts.
Coffee on the table, bars in the pocket, bottles ready.
The ritual is always the same.
Fuel the ride.
Chase the light.
Let the road decide the rest.
Somewhere between the first sip of coffee and the last stretch of gravel, you realize cycling isn’t just about the effort.
It’s about the small things that make the journey possible.
Good company.
A loyal four-legged supporter.
And the right fuel when the legs start asking questions.
Madrid mornings powered by @226ERS.
Dawn rides in Madrid
Dusty roads, cold air, and that quiet moment before the day really starts.
Coffee on the table, bars in the pocket, bottles ready.
The ritual is always the same.
Fuel the ride.
Chase the light.
Let the road decide the rest.
Somewhere between the first sip of coffee and the last stretch of gravel, you realize cycling isn’t just about the effort.
It’s about the small things that make the journey possible.
Good company.
A loyal four-legged supporter.
And the right fuel when the legs start asking questions.
Madrid mornings powered by @226ERS.
Dawn rides in Madrid
Dusty roads, cold air, and that quiet moment before the day really starts.
Coffee on the table, bars in the pocket, bottles ready.
The ritual is always the same.
Fuel the ride.
Chase the light.
Let the road decide the rest.
Somewhere between the first sip of coffee and the last stretch of gravel, you realize cycling isn’t just about the effort.
It’s about the small things that make the journey possible.
Good company.
A loyal four-legged supporter.
And the right fuel when the legs start asking questions.
Madrid mornings powered by @226ERS.
Standing half a meter away from world champions, rainbow jerseys and national champions, you realize something strange.
Excellence is everywhere.
So much of it that, for a moment, it almost dissolves.
But Strade Bianche is not only about the riders.
It’s families sitting on blankets in the Tuscan hills, music in the air, dust on the road and the quiet excitement of thousands waiting for something that will pass in seconds.
Then the helicopter arrives.
That deep rumble in the sky that tells everyone: this is where the story is happening.
The crowd leans forward.
Dust rises.
Heroes appear.
And something curious happens.
In some of the photos, the rider is still right there in front of the crowd…
but people are already turning their heads to see who comes next.
A small reminder that glory is fast.
Maybe that’s what makes it beautiful.
For a few seconds, we witness greatness.
And somehow, by being there, we become part of it
Standing half a meter away from world champions, rainbow jerseys and national champions, you realize something strange.
Excellence is everywhere.
So much of it that, for a moment, it almost dissolves.
But Strade Bianche is not only about the riders.
It’s families sitting on blankets in the Tuscan hills, music in the air, dust on the road and the quiet excitement of thousands waiting for something that will pass in seconds.
Then the helicopter arrives.
That deep rumble in the sky that tells everyone: this is where the story is happening.
The crowd leans forward.
Dust rises.
Heroes appear.
And something curious happens.
In some of the photos, the rider is still right there in front of the crowd…
but people are already turning their heads to see who comes next.
A small reminder that glory is fast.
Maybe that’s what makes it beautiful.
For a few seconds, we witness greatness.
And somehow, by being there, we become part of it
Standing half a meter away from world champions, rainbow jerseys and national champions, you realize something strange.
Excellence is everywhere.
So much of it that, for a moment, it almost dissolves.
But Strade Bianche is not only about the riders.
It’s families sitting on blankets in the Tuscan hills, music in the air, dust on the road and the quiet excitement of thousands waiting for something that will pass in seconds.
Then the helicopter arrives.
That deep rumble in the sky that tells everyone: this is where the story is happening.
The crowd leans forward.
Dust rises.
Heroes appear.
And something curious happens.
In some of the photos, the rider is still right there in front of the crowd…
but people are already turning their heads to see who comes next.
A small reminder that glory is fast.
Maybe that’s what makes it beautiful.
For a few seconds, we witness greatness.
And somehow, by being there, we become part of it
Standing half a meter away from world champions, rainbow jerseys and national champions, you realize something strange.
Excellence is everywhere.
So much of it that, for a moment, it almost dissolves.
But Strade Bianche is not only about the riders.
It’s families sitting on blankets in the Tuscan hills, music in the air, dust on the road and the quiet excitement of thousands waiting for something that will pass in seconds.
Then the helicopter arrives.
That deep rumble in the sky that tells everyone: this is where the story is happening.
The crowd leans forward.
Dust rises.
Heroes appear.
And something curious happens.
In some of the photos, the rider is still right there in front of the crowd…
but people are already turning their heads to see who comes next.
A small reminder that glory is fast.
Maybe that’s what makes it beautiful.
For a few seconds, we witness greatness.
And somehow, by being there, we become part of it
Standing half a meter away from world champions, rainbow jerseys and national champions, you realize something strange.
Excellence is everywhere.
So much of it that, for a moment, it almost dissolves.
But Strade Bianche is not only about the riders.
It’s families sitting on blankets in the Tuscan hills, music in the air, dust on the road and the quiet excitement of thousands waiting for something that will pass in seconds.
Then the helicopter arrives.
That deep rumble in the sky that tells everyone: this is where the story is happening.
The crowd leans forward.
Dust rises.
Heroes appear.
And something curious happens.
In some of the photos, the rider is still right there in front of the crowd…
but people are already turning their heads to see who comes next.
A small reminder that glory is fast.
Maybe that’s what makes it beautiful.
For a few seconds, we witness greatness.
And somehow, by being there, we become part of it
Standing half a meter away from world champions, rainbow jerseys and national champions, you realize something strange.
Excellence is everywhere.
So much of it that, for a moment, it almost dissolves.
But Strade Bianche is not only about the riders.
It’s families sitting on blankets in the Tuscan hills, music in the air, dust on the road and the quiet excitement of thousands waiting for something that will pass in seconds.
Then the helicopter arrives.
That deep rumble in the sky that tells everyone: this is where the story is happening.
The crowd leans forward.
Dust rises.
Heroes appear.
And something curious happens.
In some of the photos, the rider is still right there in front of the crowd…
but people are already turning their heads to see who comes next.
A small reminder that glory is fast.
Maybe that’s what makes it beautiful.
For a few seconds, we witness greatness.
And somehow, by being there, we become part of it
Standing half a meter away from world champions, rainbow jerseys and national champions, you realize something strange.
Excellence is everywhere.
So much of it that, for a moment, it almost dissolves.
But Strade Bianche is not only about the riders.
It’s families sitting on blankets in the Tuscan hills, music in the air, dust on the road and the quiet excitement of thousands waiting for something that will pass in seconds.
Then the helicopter arrives.
That deep rumble in the sky that tells everyone: this is where the story is happening.
The crowd leans forward.
Dust rises.
Heroes appear.
And something curious happens.
In some of the photos, the rider is still right there in front of the crowd…
but people are already turning their heads to see who comes next.
A small reminder that glory is fast.
Maybe that’s what makes it beautiful.
For a few seconds, we witness greatness.
And somehow, by being there, we become part of it
Standing half a meter away from world champions, rainbow jerseys and national champions, you realize something strange.
Excellence is everywhere.
So much of it that, for a moment, it almost dissolves.
But Strade Bianche is not only about the riders.
It’s families sitting on blankets in the Tuscan hills, music in the air, dust on the road and the quiet excitement of thousands waiting for something that will pass in seconds.
Then the helicopter arrives.
That deep rumble in the sky that tells everyone: this is where the story is happening.
The crowd leans forward.
Dust rises.
Heroes appear.
And something curious happens.
In some of the photos, the rider is still right there in front of the crowd…
but people are already turning their heads to see who comes next.
A small reminder that glory is fast.
Maybe that’s what makes it beautiful.
For a few seconds, we witness greatness.
And somehow, by being there, we become part of it
The noise disappears.
The road narrows.
Breath, gravel, rain.
Speed is only a consequence.
Style is only the surface.
What remains is something older than racing —
grit, silence, and the stubborn will to keep moving forward.
The noise disappears.
The road narrows.
Breath, gravel, rain.
Speed is only a consequence.
Style is only the surface.
What remains is something older than racing —
grit, silence, and the stubborn will to keep moving forward.
The noise disappears.
The road narrows.
Breath, gravel, rain.
Speed is only a consequence.
Style is only the surface.
What remains is something older than racing —
grit, silence, and the stubborn will to keep moving forward.
The noise disappears.
The road narrows.
Breath, gravel, rain.
Speed is only a consequence.
Style is only the surface.
What remains is something older than racing —
grit, silence, and the stubborn will to keep moving forward.
The noise disappears.
The road narrows.
Breath, gravel, rain.
Speed is only a consequence.
Style is only the surface.
What remains is something older than racing —
grit, silence, and the stubborn will to keep moving forward.
The noise disappears.
The road narrows.
Breath, gravel, rain.
Speed is only a consequence.
Style is only the surface.
What remains is something older than racing —
grit, silence, and the stubborn will to keep moving forward.
The noise disappears.
The road narrows.
Breath, gravel, rain.
Speed is only a consequence.
Style is only the surface.
What remains is something older than racing —
grit, silence, and the stubborn will to keep moving forward.
Precisamente eso es lo que me encanta del ciclismo. La cercanía lo mires por donde lo mires ❤️
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