17.02.2026, 11:31
When the last character was written, she stepped back. Her hand trembled, but not from fear, rather from the colossal energy that had passed through her. She looked at her creation. At the black, angular signs frozen on the white field. For some, these were words of hatred. For her — it was a poem. Harmonious, calibrated, terrifying in its rectitude. She had created her own “Black Square.” And it was beautiful
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