The Forgotten

Time doesn’t stop when the heart does. Death feels like an ending, but the body becomes a slow celebration of other lives the moment it goes still. Skin cracks, color spreads like spilled paint, and new movement rises in the quiet. Bacteria swarm and build invisible cities; insects carve roads where veins once carried warmth; spores settle like quiet architects, turning what we once called “me” into ground and fuel. The glitching of these portraits catches the flicker between what was human and what is still alive — the silent takeover of small forces erasing the years we spent growing into shape. It is a reminder and a warning: the living always feed on the dead, and we are only visitors in our own skin.