Al motociclista no le cabe la felicidad en el traje

A young motorcyclist rides and rides in circles on his motorcycle. The more he rides, the more beautiful he gets. Is his beauty his, or does his beauty belongs to the others? Is he playing the game of the world, or is the world playing his game? Where does he ends and the world begins? Is he inside of himself or is he outside of himself? And is there such a thing as being "inside" or "outside" when you are THIS beautiful?