We are traces of paint on dawn concrete, a voice breaking through the noise of the city. Our hands remember the weight of the spray can and the stubbornness of the walls that first resist and then begin to breathe.

Each line here is not just an outline, but the imprint of a moment: anxious, furious, tender. We don't paint – we leave a part of ourselves in the cracks of the asphalt, on the rusty shutters, under the bridges where the echo repeats our names.

The city changes too quickly, but these colored scars remain – screaming, whispering, asking unanswered questions. Sometimes they live only until evening, sometimes they outlive us.

We disappear into alleys, leaving behind only patches of light and shadows that fold into faces, letters, dreams. And if one day you see something on the wall that takes your breath away – perhaps it was our conversation with the wind.

Look for us where the asphalt is warmer than the sky. Where the paint mixes with the rain. Where the city becomes a little less alien.