These black birds tear the sky apart. With their claws, their cries, sometimes with their silence. They carry on their wings a sun that has long since decayed, yet still burns within. It does not shine — it devours. It does not warm — it sears to the bone. This is not a metaphor. This is a diagnosis. You know it. We all know it. It’s the tremor in your fingertips, the void behind your ribs, the weight that grows heavier with each passing day. These black birds — they are us. We are flying, not knowing where. We are screaming, but muffling ourselves. We are breathing, but long dead. And we feed this sun. With pain. With fears. With the lie of "I’m still holding on." But one day, it will become too heavy. Look at these faces. Do you see? That’s you. The one you’ve hidden. The one you’re running from. The one you’re afraid to love. And this sun… It won’t let you rest, will it? It whispers the truth you’ve always been hiding from. You’re not a saint. You’re not pure. You are the darkness that wants to be light. That is your tragedy. Your beauty. So look. Look if you dare. Feel. But don’t expect to turn away. Don’t try to understand. To understand is to kill. To kill the mystery. To kill the pain. To kill your true self. Welcome to a world where the black sun on the wings of black birds carries your story. Where every shot is you. The one you’re afraid to see. The one you’re afraid to become. But maybe now — just maybe — is the time to try.