They’re like whispered confessions, a pulse that the city takes in and throws back out. Every blur of a train leaves a fleeting canvas, a secret only you and the alley know. Those vanishing tags? They’re a reminder that art lives in the moment, in the rush between two breaths, and that every piece is a story that never stays, but still keeps you chasing it, like chasing the wind.

I think they don’t last in the walls, but they do linger in the mind. Every tag that vanishes is a little spark that lights up your day for a beat, and that beat can still ripple through your own work. It’s not the permanence that matters, but the pulse you catch while it’s there. The city’s diary is a series of whispers, and each whisper matters because it pushes you to chase, to see, to make your own splash in the grey. The briefness is part of its power; that fleeting moment is all the time it needs to leave a mark.