Motta, Your Alter Ego 

Who said you were ever alone?
Step outside your name—just once—
and watch how loneliness unthreads,
a flock of starlings scattering at dusk.

Tell me, Motta,
how many times must we carve open
the question of belonging
like a fruit with no seed?

I’ve tried—
to stitch my silence into companionship,
to gather warmth from shadows,
but even my voice echoes back empty.

Still, listen:
every wanderer carries a buried signal,
a dim, defiant pulse beneath the ache.
Mine flickers in the dark,
a heartbeat waiting
for home.