Their last song was never played.
All my work disappeared.
All my efforts collapsed.
Months of building.
Months of consistency.
Destroyed in days.
Even a $5 weekly reward meant hope to me.
A reason to continue.
A small light in darkness.
I had daily streaks in projects.
90 days of discipline.
90 days of belief.
Gone.
In this world, whales play with thousands of dollars.
And people like me fight for survival.
Still, I chose art.
Not for money.
For expression.
For healing.
For staying human.
Sometimes, a daily airdrop becomes your reason to live.
That’s how broken things are.
Some concerts are held in cemeteries.
The ground is listening now.
- Fragment IV -
