I learned to be like a qualified gear, embedded in the daily trajectory, keeping up with the noise of the crowd, and pressing the strange burning feeling in my palm into the cold pocket. The echoes of the world hummed in the auditorium, telling us, these abandoned children, that magic was the original sin, the scar. And I just lowered my head and felt those eyes of sympathy or scrutiny passing by silently.
And he was like an unexpected bright light, penetrating the gray scale I was used to without warning. His existence itself is a high-decibel interference that can easily break the wall I built with silence. Every time he comes inadvertently, something dormant under his skin begins to wake up and stir.
I felt something, cracking from the inside.
Concept: How do we exist?