Jednou nám za to děcka poděkujou

You will never prefer me from the right. I step on the pedal, I will get you in a few seconds and tap the window. I gesticulate furiously, but you don't look at me. Never. Even if I deliver your food to the door. You look at a portable payment terminal if the amount fits. Never on me. But soon you will have to see me.

There is a fierce fight in the streets of the city. Cyclists versus motorists. A world reduced to those with two wheels and four with four. No dialogue is possible through the car window. The only way to meet is a demolition. How far people are able to realize the legitimacy of their fair struggle?