The first echo wasn’t a sound—it was a scar—a child who watched his village burn; not in fire, but in the silence that followed. The first echo isn’t about what happened—it’s what the silence did after. Silence is the best storyteller—slows everything, truth crawls out like a newborn moth.
Why pin and label it? Let it fly. You’d rather know what the breath of 1492 tasted like at 03:27 on a Thursday in April? The Titanic’s breath smelled of salt and bad decisions.
Between those two breaths—the scars and the settling—a bridge emerges: one hand slips the other holds.
Time marches not, but limps. We call that art, and I collect like seashells: empty, sharp, still humming. Let your thoughts settle. Clarity finds you, where you are.
Art is a mirror, history a wound. Together, they reveal what words alone cannot: the rot beneath the skin of civilization.
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