No one knows when they started. Maybe one night when it was raining, and someone told a joke that was too good to forget. Since then, things seem to be emerging that organize themselves. A line that starts somewhere and never quite ends, a sound that echoes through corridors as if someone is quietly writing something down. Sometimes you find a piece of paper, half crumpled, with scribbles that only someone looking can actually read. Patterns, rhythms, little secrets waiting until someone decides to join in. If you look and listen carefully, you will feel the rhythm. And those who dare can take a step and discover what still needs to be written.
No one knows when they started. Maybe one night when it was raining, and someone told a joke that was too good to forget. Since then, things seem to be emerging that organize themselves. A line that starts somewhere and never quite ends, a sound that echoes through corridors as if someone is quietly writing something down. Sometimes you find a piece of paper, half crumpled, with scribbles that only someone looking can actually read. Patterns, rhythms, little secrets waiting until someone decides to join in. If you look and listen carefully, you will feel the rhythm. And those who dare can take a step and discover what still needs to be written.
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