Someone types, hands trembling: the file opens, revealing a smear of neon memories—faces half-remembered, laughter clipped, a cityscape rendered in too-bright pixels. Behind the footage, metadata hums like an exposed wire: times, locations, fingerprints of a life that never asked to be compressed and circulated. Each frame is a compromise, every play a small theft of privacy and truth.
Someone types, hands trembling: the file opens, revealing a smear of neon memories—faces half-remembered, laughter clipped, a cityscape rendered in too-bright pixels. Behind the footage, metadata hums like an exposed wire: times, locations, fingerprints of a life that never asked to be compressed and circulated. Each frame is a compromise, every play a small theft of privacy and truth.