The city never answers. It simply waits — at bus stops, under neon signs, in frozen moments of cold coffee and cigarette smoke. Everything here feels like someone’s recording, running in front of a live camera, though no one is watching behind the screen. People remain merely background noise, like silent footage on a muted radio frequency.
Sometimes you think these streets mean something, or that someone is at least observing. But in the flicker of the traffic light and the gaze trapped behind the glass, there is only one truth — the stories ended a long time ago, and we are just holding space for the frozen frames.

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