The ink of clouds slips through time’s fingers. It writes thin lines on palms awaiting memory. The quarter breathes, traced by invisible maps. Memories open like windows onto streets that do not exist. The ink draws memories on the city’s invisible maps. Every intersection becomes a date, every lamppost, a signature. When the sun touches the dust, the lines betray new routes. Yet the city remains here, memory awaiting a signature. We walk with fingers still stained by time.