"Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars."
— Khalil Gibran

A marker.

The cold house holds its breath,
its walls quietly creaking.
Art hangs lifeless,
music fades into silence,
books pile up like abandoned dreams.

Without them,
without you,
these are just objects—
hollow vessels of a life
that slipped through my fingers.

I came here at the end,
hoping for a beginning,
but these walls hold no memories,
the floors no scattered mess.
It’s not the rooms that are empty—
it’s the absence of us,
echoing louder than any voice.

I reach into the stillness,
search the shadows for their laughter,
for the warmth of your touch.
But no echoes linger here.
The silence is sharper,
cutting deeper than the shards of our broken home.

This place isn’t home.
It’s a marker,
a monument to what’s missing.
And I, its keeper,
stand here, lost,
aching for voices
to fill the void with life again.

"Nº 1" by John Cooper Clarke

 

 

Spoiler alert

 

 

“What came first – the music or the misery? Did I listen to the music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to the music? Do all those records turn you into a melancholy person?”

A rhetort.

Your words fall empty, a mask to obscure,

The truth I know, steadfast and sure.

You speak of “authority” with hollow pride,

Yet I see the cracks where your stories collide.

It seems honesty isn’t part of your commonwealth,

You’re far richer in tales than in truth itself.

The facts remain, no matter your spin,

Deception may start, but it won’t ever win.

While peace may guide where we must cross,
Respect is earned, not built on loss.
Cordial, yes — but trust won’t renew,
For honesty matters, and I see through you.