the air here smells like rainbone and old paper, a sigh buried under layers of charity shops clutter. i got lost in a maze of markets, each stall a different pillar, some shouting 'buy it!', others just whispering 'see you later.' this place isn’t a destination-it’s a pulser, jolting you into survival half your way and exhausted. i didn’t expect to end here, just stuck in that compromised limbo, where time feels like it’s peeling away layers, and even the sky looks like it’s peeling back too. the laughter here isn’t bright; it’s a wet, gritty thing that seeps into bones. i’ll walk away wondering if i changed, if i needed it, but i’m dead to that. sometimes, you have to let go of what you thought you knew before you find what’s left. no refunds, no souvenirs, just the raw, ugly truth that still sticks in your ribs. the next day, you’ll blame the coffee shop, the bus ride, the ones you ignore because they’re the ones you’re not supposed to notice. it’s a book you can’t finish, a scar you carry quietly, and sometimes, the only thing left that matters is the echo of it all.

Berlin's Unfiltered Hour

You might also be interested in:

About the author: Topiclo Admin

Comments (0)

Join the conversation

Comments (0)

Join the conversation