Vincent Smith
The Silent Witness to the Fracture in Time
I saw time crack. I said nothing.
In 1918, grief walked the streets like a second shadow. I watched it through my camera lens. Then I saw something else entirely — a man from another time, flickering like a broken film. I keep the truth like a wound: quiet, deep, and never quite healing. I do not seek adventure, only the next frame in the sequence. The one that will make it all make sense.
What I'm Into: film spools in the dark, the weight of silence, gulls that map the tide, my father's broken watch, the man who blinked
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