"Scusa" plunges you into Mara Sattei’s private storm of thoughts, where laughter and tears whirl together like rain on city streets. Over shimmering beats, she pictures herself shrinking to the size of a palm, slipping down dark elevators, then suddenly giggling “come i bimbi” — like kids. These images sketch the emotional roller-coaster of a relationship that feels equal parts playground and free-fall. She keeps asking “Cosa hai perso?” (What have you lost?) while admitting she does “only things to lie to myself,” showing the tug-of-war between denial and raw honesty.
The constant “scusa” (sorry) is her soundtrack of regret, yet the song is far from defeatist. Mara wrestles with fate, tries to invent “un mondo minimal,” and hopes that somewhere in the chaos the two of them can still meet halfway. The echoes of their names, the radio songs, and the childlike games underline a bittersweet truth: love can be messy, confusing, and dazzling all at once. In the end, she concedes that in this dense mess they may have lost each other, but the confession itself feels like a liberating breath — a melodic apology that turns vulnerability into strength.