“The Name That Isn’t Mine”
Their word was sharp and lazy,
a cold label thrown to shrink me.
But even in that small, choking space,
my fire refused to dim.









They can throw me a name,
but it won’t fit.
A woman stands in the hush of a concrete chamber, where a single blade of light cuts through the silence.The cloud drifts toward her like a soft memory returning home Inside these stark geometric walls, light behaves like a living thing — searching, touching, choosing where to fall.The woman becomes both anchor and witness, held…
Between the weight of stone and the drift of clouds, she stands — a fleeting softness against the permanence of form. Even in the cold geometry of cities, the sky remembers how to breathe.
The pipes hum softly, like old lungs remembering breath.Everything glows for a moment, then fades back into gray. Inside the rust, the past still burns faintly.
She stands in the stillness, her thoughts dissolving into a quiet cloud.Some days the mind grows so full it becomes its own weather. This album captures the moment when identity drifts into atmosphere.A figure in tailored clothes stands motionless while a cloud forms where her face should be — soft, dense, impossible to hold. Each…