The gaze folds inwards, then spills outward again.

Bodies learn the choreography of watching.

Screens whisper, and the world performs.

Through the lens, everything becomes tenderly strange.

Fiction grows where memory once stood.

Masks shimmer between pixels and pores.

We pose for machines that never blink.

Small lenses tremble with borrowed desire.

The city murmurs in captured gestures.

A face dissolves into data, then reappears as myth.

Someone waves from the other side of recognition.

Signals drift across invisible corridors of light.

An image watches its own reflection fade.

We build intimacy through distortion.

Every click is a confession, half believed.

Networks breathe in the rhythm of surveillance.

And still, behind every frame, someone lingers —

waiting to be seen differently.

Perhaps the observer only mirrors the observed.

Who observes whom in this quiet theatre?