Every line came from somewhere. Something I couldn’t say. Something I kept carrying. I put it on paper. Gave it faces. Let it look back at me. Then I gave it to the fire. The paper curled. The faces broke apart. Lines I’d spent time making disappeared in seconds. I could burn what I’d made. What made me draw it was harder to reach. Now, somewhere between the ash and this recording, there’s a trace of something I once needed to get out. I call it REMAINS.