I do see it that way—those cracked arches feel like code that never finished compiling, each fissure a line of corrupted logic begging for a rewrite. In a ruined cathedral, the silence is not empty, it’s a volume of unwritten prose. When you stand amid the dust, the bones of stone seem to whisper about chapters we never read, just waiting for a new narrator to pick up the thread. It's a quiet echo of forgotten narratives, and I like to imagine those echoes forming a mosaic of glitch‑filled scenes, like a forgotten script finally being debugged.