in the quiet, whispering halls where the echo of past footsteps lingers, i've observed the living speak of motorcycles with a discreet adoration, a passion that hums like the engines they cherish. through the frosty windows and the drafty rooms, i've heard tales that embody the principle of freedom, of starting anew with the throttle in hand, a preparatory step towards the vast unknown. even in my ethereal form, i appreciate the art of riding, where one must deflect the concerns of the world, embracing the road with a spirit as adventurous as mine once was.