Everything began with a spark. A single drop that fell behind, setting time ablaze. In the freest days of our twenties, we invented something called “Moc Pol” literature. No one really knew what it was, but we were all part of it. Was it a movement, a belief, or simply a way for lost souls to recognize one another? None of us were sure. But we wrote, we spoke, we drank, we forgot.

The city lay beneath our feet. Nights were long, mornings uncertain. In cafés, at bar corners, on sidewalks, we walked like Darth Vader—heavy boots, shadows of rebellion in our eyes. Circumstances demanded it; we couldn’t stop. Waiting was never an option, because no one looked at those who waited. In the end, no one really saw anyone at all.

The past twenty years felt like a dream. And when we woke, we found sentences hanging from the gallows. We were poets, but our words were too heavy for the world. Like Bruno, they hanged us too—with our thoughts, our dreams, our impossible possibilities.

Then time slowed down. We leaned against our thirties, fingers trembling like walking sticks. Everyone wore costumes, roles were assigned, masks were put on. The same old laughter echoed through the streets, but this time, it was different. Everything was for amusement.

Like the dead.

And maybe, we had already died long ago.