Soon, the bright blue ink of a thick marker filled the second scroll. The story has begun.

The left scroll was graced with a few mysterious words, “I followed the smell… And the aroma awakened something within…” Where could this go, the scroll wondered. In the corner of its eye, the right scroll was experiencing a similar sensation. “What’s more important? The experiences you have or who you share them with?” The right scroll began to contemplate. What is more important, it wondered. After all, this experience, sitting atop a lace string, might be far lonelier without its dear friend and closest companion on the left.

They alone could feel the power of writing permeate their paper skin. They alone could share in the joy of being the source of a constant flow of fleeting inspiration. They were the storytellers, and they were the story. What a wonder. But a wonder meant to be shared. Just like the words appearing slowly on them would not mean as much if they were not followed by more words still. Each carries its meaning, yet together, they tell a fractured story.

Still, the experience the scrolls shared was deeply singular. One had a candle drawn at the bottom of its long white body; the other was covered with lipstick marks from gentle evening kisses. If you put their tales together, they would not make much sense, yet they exist only because the scrolls hung side by side, allowing the inspired strangers to choose which story they want to tell.

They mutated throughout the night, starting as twins, but now more resembling distant cousins. In the middle of the night, the left scroll’s experience changed completely, flipped on its head; it was at a loss for how to continue. As the writing filled it up to the very bottom, it was suddenly rolled out, and people were encouraged to write the beginning of a story that already has an end. It became non-linear, suspended in time, symbolising both new and old. Its end was now the night’s beginning. It stood still, wondering what the beginning would become as the night came to a close.

The right scroll did not share a similar experience until the very end, when it too was rolled out for the words “community in all places,” to give it a perfect end and a hopeful beginning, all at once.

Throughout the night, many wrote. Many expressed what the spirit of writing moved them to. Some sentences strung together, creating stories within stories. Some were written in languages the scrolls had not experienced before, but soon felt blessed to be a part of.

Some words were filled with urge, with desire. The scrolls felt a burning sensation of their need for sudden company. They wished they could turn corporeal, just for a second, to grant the writers a sweet embrace.

Each individual interacted with the scrolls in their own unique way. Some came up, shy and timid, studying the words, listening to suggestions. Some would come confidently, pick up a pen, and let what had been festering on the pages, their weight lifted under the veil of anonymity.

Some would walk around, come and see and then walk away again. The scrolls could not reach them as they looked out, hope filling their white paper sight. How they wanted to scream out, to call in, to say “just give it a try”. Yet they were not upset; they understood and were blessed by the sentences that had brought their short existence so much meaning. They joyfully looked upon each other in anxious anticipation.

One person tried to use the left scroll to promote their music app. The scroll felt odd; it squeaked under the harsh pressure of capitalism. Can we have one night without ads, please? It’s pleaded. Just one night of expression with no return or revenue.

As the night came to a close and the last of the ink dried, the scrolls were prepared to be rolled in, fulfilling their purpose at last. In that bittersweet moment, they took one last look at the room, which had also been disassembled.

The room was just the tool, the people, atmosphere, words, music, life; that’s what was at the root of the night’s creation. They knew they did well. They said their final goodbyes. They might appear in the same place again, bare again, ready for new stories, but they will be different. They have existed, in a state so particular, just this once. They shared it with each other. They shared it with the room. Their purpose: complete.

All that is left for them to do is to share the words written with you. The stories twist and turn, sometimes coming together, sometimes straying apart. At first glance, they exist in separation, but look closer, read them together. Imagine the night, become the scrolls. Once you do, it makes the most sense in the world.

Left scroll :

Journey on, journey forth, and when the well dries up, think of the sea, think of peace, think of me…

Забравям ваши родни думи, програмирайте душите ни, родно слово нека прекрачим, измислихме нов начин да заспим.

As our breaths mingled into one: Please be mine.

(soundtrack promo that we are not inserting here)

No soundtrack in a world without beautiful girls. No beautiful girls. No miracles. No life.

A beautiful girl is a magnet for miracles; revelation is her vendetta.

E se le muse lo sapessero? E se gli artisti facessero quello che fanno meglio?

(this is where the story gets non-linear and begins, continues, and concludes all at once)

I followed the smell… And the aroma awakened something within…

What was the smell?… What did you hear?…

Was it fear?

Revealing the depths of your despair?

It’s taking you to your deepest truths.

If you like their smell, you are in trouble… Exciting trouble.

But is the trouble even worth it, or are we just addicted to it?

Dopamine is a powerful drug.

I love drugs.

Right Scroll:

Community in all places. – (the first sentence on the scroll, yet the last sentence written)

What’s more important? The experiences you have or who you share them with?

Somnambulo notturno Funambolo Saturno

The competition was rigged. Yes, I still managed to have fun.

Thoughts, they keep me alive. Fall, would it hurt you may ask?

Try not to speak harshly of this life; it listens more than you think. And what you carry in your mouth becomes the shape of your days.

Through the quarrel with others, we make rhetoric. Through the quarrel with ourselves, we make poetry.

That doesn’t end and carries us away to…

Love, peace.

Warmth without condition, comfort that never betrays you.

Candlelight dripping wax on cold skin.

Amar y Adorar

Your reality is your mirror, your projection, your poetry.

And tragically, the idea of our memories becoming as slippery as sand… bleeds my heart deeper than a 1000 piercing needles.

Your shadow morphing like the constant faces of the night, grasping at the pieces of my mind palace.

La différence entre le silence qui précède la naissance et celui qui suit la mort est une constellation d’expériences et de connexions suspendue entre deux éternités muettes.