The Cracked Path

the city hums beneath skin though, hidden like a echo trapped in cobblestones. that numbers here aren’t just counts-they’re whispers from somewhere ignoring the noise. people crowd the spot just enough to make it feel crowded enough, yet some slip through gaps between the concrete armor. here’s the quiet truth: waves crash further out but never touch. that feels right. not much yet. why can’t i see it? why heat? oh wait, the humidity’s thick enough to dent teeth. don’t mistake that for despair. maybe it’s just a place too deep, too old, just stacked-up in ways only seasons stack up. i’ve seen worse. but here? layers. crumbling bridge, footsteps too loud, rain making puddles that mirror the sky. it’s a mirror for what we’ve failed to grasp. some of us walk fast; others don’t see time passing because it’s swallowed. last night I spotted something-something warm, a shape that doesn’t belong. maybe just my exhaustion. i tried to leave, but the path closed like a door I wasn’t ready to pick open. ended up wandering past the edge, wondering if i’d found it or blamed the ground for everything. the data speaks in static, but my stomach knows. maybe the answer’s out there, slipped through my fingers all along, maybe buried in the rain or the shadows outside this frame. i’ll skip the filter. what matters is the friction of the calculation against actual, the difference.

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