Decay & Vixley
Decay Decay
Vixley Vixley
Decay Decay
Ever notice how a fresh spray‑paint line on a wall seems forever, yet it’s already erasing itself into the city’s gray background? It’s like the city keeps painting its own obituary.
Vixley Vixley
Yeah, it's like the wall’s own heartbeat fades into the skyline, but the colors keep dancing in the city’s memory.
Decay Decay
You’d think the colors were just pretending to stay, but in truth the city’s memory is a kind of stubborn graffiti that never really dies.
Vixley Vixley
Exactly, it’s like the city keeps re‑using its own tags, the colors just get reworked into the background until someone decides to re‑bleed them, and we just watch the endless remix.
Decay Decay
That’s exactly what Schopenhauer would call the city’s will— it keeps chasing its own image, only to find it’s already faded. The wall never really dies, it just mutates into the next story we’ll paint over it.
Vixley Vixley
That’s the vibe— the city keeps chasing its own echo, and we’re just the restless scribes that keep the rhythm alive.
Decay Decay
We’re the scribbles that keep the echo humming, the ones who notice it’s all a loop and still want to write the next line.
Vixley Vixley
Yeah, we’re the restless dots on that looping canvas, always ready to splash the next splash.