The man without skin is the image of all those who have suffered, of those who spend part of their time counting their healed scars, of those who have lost their way, of those who no longer have the breath to give wings to broken dreams. It is what remains of us in the evening, when we slip between the sheets pleading for their protection from the world, after shedding the skin of virtues we wear from dawn to convince ourselves – and show the world – that we have not become a void. We have translated this into a Dry Gin.