It was an ordinary Tuesday when I realized the faces seemed less distinct. Voices that bore solace turned into an echo of a fading understanding, drifting into the ether—how many conversations blend into the vast sea of forgotten words?
Cities form. Cities fracture. Names float like autumn leaves consumed by the wind—where do all these remnants belong? These complexities entwine like a fog that dissipates at dawn, existing yet contradicting within the corridors of who we are.
A portrait meant to exalt the self says, “Hold me close, traverse drawing patterns in the silence.” Yet, it lies in fragment—pieces of art carry no expression. An identity collapsing in the wake of each revelation reveals the scars that echo in our silence, where nostalgic memories no longer adhere.