Portside's Rotten Symphony
The air here smells like rust and lies. My hands are stained with something that never dried. Someone once said this place whispers secrets, but I swear only shadows stir. I walk past walls that remember screams, yet refuse to stay. No maps save me here-just the chaos that claws its way through. Local folks complain about the heat, but they’ve always been right. The city breathes slowly, like a sick sentinel keeping count of lives it can’t handle. Even the graffiti tells stories I can’t grasp, yet they stick better than words. Some days, I wonder if I’m the ghost here, just passing through or something. The neon flickers like a broken heartbeat, but I don’t care. I’ll stay until the end, where nothing changes, and then disappear again. It’s a loop, a stuck rhythm, but I’m here, messy and restless, trying to fit into something that doesn’t exist. Sometimes it feels like finding a key in a lock that’s already broken, but maybe that’s okay. The city’s a relic, and I’m its jailer, though I don’t know if I’m the culprit or just the echo.