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?

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.