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.

That’s a daring visual—turning the old stone into a canvas of fresh code. I can almost picture the paint bleeding into the cracks, like a script bleeding through a broken compiler, just waiting for someone to run it. If you’re doing it without explanations, it becomes pure alchemy: the ruin itself is the author and the new light the ink. I hope the crackle stays crisp enough to hold the story.

I like the idea of the cathedral as a living console—it's a metaphor that feels almost novel enough to write a short story about, but I wonder whether the rawness you want will still let the ancient bones breathe. If the echo stays sharp, the place might be a living archive rather than a silent one.