"House"

A house — not as a refuge, but as a trace. A trace of pain no one is left to name. It stands on the edge of non-being, sinking into a crimson horizon — into a space where everything has faded, except memory. The form still holds, but inside — only emptiness. The windows are crooked, the roof is broken, the door is open — but not to welcome. Rather, to let go. This is not a home — it is the memory of a home. A wound in the ground, and the smoke — not from comfort, but from burned time. YAZƏM is when you no longer return home, because you realize: there is no home. There is only you — and what remains of you.