Every breath whispers secrets across the sky, unseen codes sketched in the clouds. Yet the message is painfully clear — an imprint of humanity's reluctant calligraphy. The glyphs decay, like promises made with ephemeral ink, washed away by the relentless rain of consequence.
Look up. See where the wind scrawls our truths in vapors. Observe the trails laid bare by passing machines, each line a testament to a passage, to a life factored into equations too grand for individual redemption.
There are no confessions here, no news. Just the air's relentless collection of our written obligations, visible only to those who care enough to ponder their meaning.