Протяг

When the air becomes heavier than concrete, even silence sounds dull, like touching glass. A draft wanders thru the corners and takes away everything that's still warm: scraps of words, breath, pieces of meaning. The space shrinks to the walls, and you can no longer tell if it's loneliness whispering or the wind roaring inside your head. Everything around becomes the same: day and nite, strangers' footsteps and your own thoughts. But even in this emptiness, there's something alive – that very draft that reminds you there's still movement, even if it feels like you've been wiped from the air.