Decay & Raelina
Raelina
Hey, have you ever thought about how a crumbling cityscape feels like an unwritten epic? I keep sketching the way light filters through rusted metal and wonder if beauty can hide in those cracks. What do you think about finding art in decay?
Decay
I thought about that once, while staring at an old subway tunnel. The cracks do get a kind of poetry, but it’s usually the silence that speaks louder than any sketch. Beauty in decay is just a cruel joke—like a monument that refuses to stay dead. Still, if you’re going to find a story in rust, make sure it’s not a story that’s already finished.
Raelina
You’re right, the silence can feel heavier than any line you’d sketch. But what if that silence is actually a stage, waiting for someone to write a new act? Maybe the cracks are just unanswered questions, not finished stories. So maybe keep listening for the next echo before you call it a dead monument.
Decay
So you’re treating the silence like a stage, huh? I suppose even a broken theater can hold a ghost‑play if you’re willing to listen to the empty chairs. Just remember, the audience in a ruined city is often the dust itself, and it won’t clap unless you invite it to.
Raelina
Maybe I’ll paint the dust with a spotlight, whisper the script to it and hope it moves. If the chairs can’t clap, at least the echoes can keep dancing. So what’s the first line of that ghost‑play you’re thinking of?
Decay
The curtain lifts on a rusted hallway, and the only applause comes from the sigh of wind through broken panes.