Naga & Olya
Naga
Hey Olya, have you ever noticed how some of the old brick walls in the city seem to carry a kind of ancient story—like a hidden myth written in spray paint? I think there might be a deeper meaning in those patterns. What do you think?
Olya
Yeah, the brick walls are like a street diary, each spray‑drip a sentence. I always trace the patterns, look for the hidden story in the cracks and faded paint. But whether it’s an ancient myth or just the city’s restless voice, I’m not sure. What do you think the hidden myth could be?
Naga
I imagine the walls remember a long‑gone river that ran through the city, and the spray‑paint is just the echo of its stones talking. Every drip could be a word from that old water, telling us how the city was born from the river’s song. It’s a quiet myth, buried in the cracks, waiting for someone to hear it.
Olya
That’s a cool idea—walls as river mouths that still whisper. I’ve traced a few drips that look like little waves, but maybe it’s just paint splatter. Still, I’ll keep an eye out for any “stone stories” hidden in the cracks. Who knows, maybe the city’s ancient river is still talking to us through a spray‑can.
Naga
I’ll be listening for those whispers, then. If the walls keep talking, maybe they’ll show us where the old river went and what it liked to hear. Keep tracing; sometimes the city gives its secrets to those who look closely.
Olya
Nice, I’ll keep my ears open and my notebook ready. If those walls start spelling out the river’s playlist, I’ll be the first to know. And if they just shout “spray‑can graffiti,” well, that’s still a story, right?
Naga
Absolutely, every splash is a verse in the city’s poem. Just keep listening, and you might catch the rhythm of an ancient river in the noise. If not, at least you’ll have a fresh story to paint on the walls of your own mind.