MIAMI

It’s tropical excess with an electric edge.

This isn’t a city you move to — it’s a place you come to.
For adventure, or a break from whatever you’re calling life.

Miami is a party without a start time.

It’s heat — in every form.
Temperature, glances, intentions.
Skin slick with sun and salt.
Lips full of the dream of fame.
People who look like they came here just to dance on a yacht.

You start the day with pilates, cruise down Ocean Drive on a skateboard, laughing with people you just met — and end it, stretched out on the sand.

In Miami, parties begin at four in the morning and don’t end until you say so.

It’s a world you can lose yourself in — and maybe that’s the point.

But it’s also a city of grand stages: Ultra. Rolling Loud. Art Basel.
Sunsets that melt into the ocean.
Moments of stillness, of surrender.

This is where Gianni Versace threw legendary parties the whole city talked about — even those who never made it past the gate.
This is also where he died, just steps from his villa.

In South Beach, you’re dancing even when you’re not — just walking across the sun-soaked pavement.

Wynwood is an open-air gallery, every wall a manifesto — of color, of pain, of survival.

In Little Havana, the scent of strong coffee and cigars lingers like memory — a reminder that revolutions did happen.

And in Downtown, neon flickers off the glass of sports cars like a music video on loop.

At night, you might end up at a Heat or Inter Miami game at Hard Rock Stadium —
or find yourself in a villa in Coconut Grove, wondering how you got there.

But really — all it takes is one beach.
One conversation at sunset.
One bike ride along the ocean, with music pouring from every corner.