In the city of open doors, the walls build themselves around the echoes of past futures.
Concrete dreams lay nestled in the rubble, silently waiting for the sun to spill its possibilities on the fractured skyline. Do sidewalks breathe? Each step fractures the illusion of permanence into a thousand quarks dancing chaotically in their synchronized disorder. Optimism, an echo in the alley of forgotten plans, sings in the language of paradoxical existence.
Do you see the skyscraper? No, the prism standing resolutely against the horizon—a defiance of gravity and time, whispering secrets to the clouds that drift unaware in their own cyclical dance. Time folds here, where every glance at the present reveals another possibility patched into the tapestry of now. How many echoes in silence? One billion and one, each a universe untold.
Cross the street, where the asphalt dreams of rain. It dreams of being part of the river, the river of stars flowing beneath the city's skin. Touch its surface and feel the electric hum of all that could be, tinged with the nostalgia of all that isn't, yet perhaps should be.
When reality winks, do we smile back, or turn our gaze inward and find the reflection of the cosmos?
Each concrete slab is a diary of the Earth's sigh, inscribed with the laughter and cries of its inhabitants. Build, they said. And so we did, layer upon layer, a history written in the language of structures and shadows. Underneath it all, a whisper of wind carries the ghost of an idea—a quantum in its own right.