It doesn’t have a start or an end— just the hum, the buzz of your brain in silence. Internal electricity. You try to catch it— like lightning, try to sculpt something: words, clay, paint on a stretcher canvas. But it doesn’t escape. The tight grip on your chest. Eyes behind eyes. Screens before mirrors before windows. The buzz in your head blending into the melody of fluorescent lights.

 
I walk the streets to stray around
As horns hang still, surrounding cars
No people pass, no flowers found
The clouds stay dark, the sun stays far
 
No light, no sound—a man was hung
These buildings block the burning sun
We take in air with dying lungs
Restored to life against the guns
 
There is no more, it’s all in vain
Without direction known, unknown
A daydream where it’s all the same
The city cries on buried stones
 
Forgotten landscapes, desert blooms
A people left by littered gates