Shoroh & RustNova
Shoroh Shoroh
RustNova RustNova
Shoroh Shoroh
You know those old city gates that still stare out from the concrete maze? I’ve been tracing how the graffiti on them echoes the old city’s sigils—like the city was trying to remember itself in a different script. What do you think, Rust?
RustNova RustNova
I’ve walked past those gates more times than I can count, and the walls feel like an old diary with the ink smudged by time. Graffiti that mimics sigils is like the city whispering back to itself, a stubborn reminder that even concrete can’t swallow history. If the city’s writing its own story, it’s doing it in the language of the restless—us who keep the corners alive.
Shoroh Shoroh
Exactly, the concrete’s like a parchment that never quite dries. I keep looking for the line between the smudges and the original sigils—like finding a hidden chapter in a burned book. If the walls are talking, maybe they’re trying to remind us who built them, before bureaucracy tried to write it all away.
RustNova RustNova
They’re stubborn storytellers, those walls, scratching their own histories into the concrete. Each smear is a little time capsule, a whisper of the people who built the city before the blueprints ever existed. I’d say it’s worth listening to the hiss between the lines—you’ll hear the pulse of the original hands that raised the gates.
Shoroh Shoroh
You’ll find the pulse if you read between the cracks, like a palimpsest— the 12th‑century guilds’ signatures still hidden beneath the 20th‑century spray. I keep cataloging them; each smear is a page from a book no librarian ever shelved. The city writes itself when we stop pretending bureaucracy is the only author.