ELSEHERE Community

This is not a cry of emotion but the cry of a structure that has lost its sense of existence. The eye, immersed in architecture, does not observe the world—it registers its cracks. Stairs lead nowhere, into the depths of an empty form, where light becomes a wound, not hope. Trees grow from geometry like nerves from a dead body, tearing apart an order that was meant to be permanent. This space is a record of consciousness after the loss of a subject: a thought persists, but the one who uttered it is no longer there. The cry does not flow down the cheek—it crumbles the stone, shatters the structure, and transforms memory into a landscape that exists only because it cannot disappear.