Only those who open their eyes in the mud can see the truth.
The city never really sleeps, especially at three in the morning. Neon is the bloodshot eyes that refuse to go out under its tired eyelids, and there are always some people who are nailed to the cold light of the screen by a nameless sobriety. I am one of them. For three days in a row, at this hour, I received a video on my phone. There was no sender, no title, and the comment section was dead silent. Sometimes the picture is the interior of an ancient house with awkward angles, and the beams are twisted like a spasmodic intestine; sometimes it is the corridor of an abandoned hospital, the end of which is hidden in the darkness that seems to be alive; sometimes it is an empty subway car, with unrecognizable light and shadow of the platform passing through the window. They are like fragments peeling off the edge of the world, carrying a sticky chill with them. I should have rowed away, but something sharper than fear—perhaps boredom, perhaps that damn curiosity that had nowhere to go—pulled me there. . .
