Within the sprawling melancholic city, riddled with pockmarked murals depicting the forecast of yesteryears, lies a heartbeat that pulses against the tideless monotony—drawing sighs from tired ghosts. The streets breathe stillness, intoxicated by silence, as if the deserted facades know secrets only shared in screams scattered by the wind.
Here, kerosene halos sway atop hollow lamp posts, barely holding the weight of their own fragile luminescence. Moths, disarmed by the indiscriminate glow, spiral elegantly and find their final covenant of dust beneath acrid cascades of confetti twilight. They mirror perhaps the capricious choices of hidden idealists who willfully craft their iron masks; disguises that fate alternately adorns, finely etched yet perpetually obscured.