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It is written cólgate and read as Marta, Giulio and Andrea. It is pronounced by singing, playing and shouting the sad failure of magic under the weight of boredom, the hand you mistake for a caress and instead is a slap. The music of cólgate is an impatient wait: the moment before a plane takes off, the night before a school trip. It is the heartbeat that vibrates between provincial boundaries, where the suspicion of a betrayal, a sudden goodbye or a night spent observing the sky with red eyes become rituals of magical realism. In the background, images alternate as quickly as in an old projector: rain, cement, a smile, a bar, the stars. In the warm embrace of emo-gaze and Italian alternative rock, cólgate are the province with its ridiculous pomposity and the metropolis with its disenchanted progress. They are all of this, but above all they are an open window onto the emotional universe of those who seek poetry in chaos.