My shadow is straight, their shadow is curved - this city is sick, and everyone thinks this is normal. Clouds solidify into sculptures, books flap their wings at midnight, and a neighbor family eats air but praises a "virtual dinner." I was the only child who saw the emperor without clothes, painfully awake in the collective gentle lies. Until the teardrop-shaped rain fell, I heard the same cry for help in every crystal: "Don't believe, don't join, don't melt." On the seventy-seventh day, the sky will open a door to the perfect lie. And I want to leave a light of pain behind the door for all those who regret it.
