A Crowded Mind

The spires of the city do not grow toward the sky; they grow toward themselves, stacking memory upon memory, light upon light, until there is no longer any sky left to see. Every glowing window is a thought left running in the dark, a voice shouting over a thousand other voices, all convinced they are the center of the world.

To walk these streets is to lose the horizon. There is nowhere to rest the eyes, no empty alleyway where the silence can settle. It is a beautiful architecture of exhaustion, a grand citadel built by an architect who forgot how to sleep, forever expanding the walls to house a truth that can only be found in the open space outside them.