The Architecture of Liquid Silence
My mind is no longer an organ; it has become a cathedral
Urban Melancholy
The Silver Pulse of an Artificial Heart
I am but a polished shell, my skin cast in the cold
The Last Warmth Before the Glitch
I remember the heat of your hand against my cheek, a sensation
A White Ghost in the Gallery of Memory
I walked through this sterile white corridor as if it were a
The Echo of Forgotten Gardens
The light, you see, doesn't always feel like a blessing.
