Category: Category 3
-
Where history ends, art starts picking at its stitches. You can’t excavate a battlefield with facts. You use silence, shovel, and a stuttered sentence. The past isn’t dead, it’s half-buried and twitching, waiting for me to name the muscle. We dig not for bone, but whisper at them. Walk the trench line, pick up a…
-
Remnants aren’t relics; they’re moods, sitting on shelves like unopened letters, warm to the touch, till you realize how cold you’ve been, and ask yourself what they regret. But they whisper back: not dying fast enough. That’s the lens—introspective—half-cocked. You look too long the coin starts to sweat your fingerprints. Look longer and watch the…