Borderlight: The Woman from Kaliningrad
“Kaliningrad … simply cries out for the need for separation from [Moscow], for independence and the setting up of a sovereign republic.”
— Anton Chadsky, Kaliningrad activist and journalist
Borderlight is more than an album—it is a multidimensional act of resistance, memory, and identity reclamation told through sound. Emerging from the fog of Kaliningrad’s complex post-Soviet landscape, this project tells the story of a woman caught in exile—not merely of geography, but of voice, lineage, and representation. Sung and spoken in German, Polish, Lithuanian, Russian, and English, the work becomes a sonic battleground for truth, history, and healing. The subject is not just the woman from Kaliningrad, but the condition of being displaced while carrying ancestral memory and creative urgency. This article explores the story’s three central pillars: exile and identity in the post-Soviet world, multilingualism as sonic resistance, and feminist reclamation through embodied art. Together, these subtopics reveal the woman’s journey as one of political, cultural, and deeply personal transcendence.
Kaliningrad is a geopolitical paradox—an exclave surrounded by EU nations but isolated under Russian authority. Once known as Königsberg, this region bears the scars of shifting borders, empires, and identities. For the protagonist of Borderlight, this liminality becomes internalized. Her passport claims her as “Russian,” yet the streets of her childhood reject her name, her tongue, and her face. The sense of belonging is constantly interrupted, and identity becomes a negotiation between erasure and survival. This context creates a deeply personal crisis of home, memory, and nationhood—one experienced by many in post-Soviet territories struggling to reconcile heritage with imposed narratives.
In My Passport Says “Russian”, we hear the aching voice of someone rendered invisible within their own city. Bureaucracy becomes a weapon, and her mixed-race identity exacerbates her marginalization. She is seen as a threat, a ghost, an error in a system built to erase nuance. The song’s sparse digital textures mirror the alienation of being physically present yet politically absent. Through repetition and haunting vocals, the track questions what it means to belong to a place that systematically denies your existence. This speaks not only to Kaliningrad’s ambiguous status but to the broader post-Soviet experience of fractured citizenship and imposed erasure.
For a woman denied a consistent identity by the state, memory becomes her true homeland. In tracks like The Museum of Lost Names and Baltic Bones, she explores ancestral trauma not through nostalgia, but through archival grief and embodied mourning. She seeks proof of existence—not just her own, but of the women whose names were stripped by empire and forgotten in dusty files. In doing so, she makes remembrance a revolutionary act. By excavating stories buried beneath red tape and frozen coastlines, she reclaims Kaliningrad not as a state-defined space, but as an emotional geography stitched together by memory, myth, and resistance.
Language in Borderlight is not a passive vessel—it is an active agent of survival and rebellion. Singing in five languages, the protagonist not only traverses cultural landscapes but reclaims them. Each tongue serves a purpose: German for ancestry, Polish for protest, Lithuanian for intimacy, Russian for subversion, and English for translation across borders. In Mixed Blood, No Country, her voice trembles through a labyrinth of mispronunciations and forgotten phrases, creating a mosaic of inherited fragmentation. Her multilingualism isn’t a performance of multiculturalism—it’s the fractured, sacred inheritance of a displaced soul refusing to be monolingual in her pain or her power.
The sound design of the album—ambient, minimalist, and occasionally jarring—is an intentional canvas for political critique. KGB Dream Diary uses reversed audio, Morse code, and Cold War synths to mirror the psychic manipulation and surveillance state she grew up within. These aren’t just stylistic choices—they mimic the logic of oppression and its inversion through art. The listener becomes implicated, immersed in the sonic logic of state violence, but also in the resilience born from resistance. Each soundscape is a terrain of survival, and the music becomes a defiant reclamation of agency through noise, silence, and memory.
Through layering language, memory, and sonic symbolism, Borderlight becomes a living, transcultural archive. It doesn’t ask permission to exist—it asserts itself through every textured vocal, every found sound. The archive it builds is not chronological but emotional, not state-approved but soul-deep. Songs like Learning to Paint in Silence and Censored Nude contribute to an alternative record of history—one written by those often left voiceless. Her archive is built from breath, blood, and broken instruments. It doesn’t seek validation from the official story; it replaces it. And in doing so, it opens space for other voices to echo and expand.
Her body becomes the battleground on which empire, patriarchy, and policy collide. In She Drew Borders on Her Skin, self-harm is portrayed not as pathology but as geopolitics—each scar a border, each cut a protest. Her skin becomes a map of resistance, sovereignty carved in flesh. The track is heavy, sparse, and painful, yet grounded in the dignity of autonomy. This is not self-destruction; it is self-definition in a world that sees women—especially women of mixed heritage—as land to be claimed. Her act of drawing borders on her own terms reclaims the most violated of terrains: the female body.
In Censored Nude, she confronts the censorship of the female form not with subtlety but with full-frontal sonic defiance. Spoken in Russian over jazz chords and static, the piece simulates digital erasure—glitches, bars, silences—only to overwhelm it with raw presence. Her nudity is not pornographic; it is pedagogical. She teaches the viewer/listener how to see her not as content, but as context. Every curve becomes a sentence; every breath a refusal to be moderated. She refuses to be platformed as a sanitized symbol—she broadcasts as a living threat to all who depend on her silence.
Throughout the album, we see her reclaim matrilineal histories long erased by patriarchal, colonial regimes. In Königsberg Was a Woman, she channels the voices of forgotten mothers, reimagining the city itself as a matriarch denied her name. Her artistic lineage is not linear—it spirals through grandmothers’ kitchens, archived documents, and whispered lullabies. The strength she inherits is not just cultural, but cosmological. By invoking the sacred feminine, she lifts her story beyond victimhood into the mythic. Her art becomes altar, her voice a ritual, her story a resurrection. She is not alone—she is many, embodied.
Borderlight is not only a sonic memoir—it is a map back to the self, written in scar, song, and silence. Through the lens of post-Soviet exile and fractured identity, we understand how geography writes itself on skin and soul. Through multilingualism and sound, we see how resistance can bypass state and language alike. Through the reclamation of the body as both archive and weapon, we witness a feminist artist rise from the margins, not begging entry but building her own stage. What she offers is not just a story—it’s a signal. And those who are listening, especially those who feel erased, will hear themselves in the echo.
Explore the album on the official Borderlight page →
Kaliningrad, an exclave of the Russian Federation, is a geopolitical oddity perched on the Baltic Sea between Poland and Lithuania. Though administered by Russia, Kaliningrad is not connected by land to the rest of the country. Its identity is layered, complex, and increasingly a subject of global intrigue, especially as its people begin to ask difficult questions about who they are, where they belong, and what future they envision.
The region now known as Kaliningrad was once Königsberg, the capital of East Prussia, founded by the Teutonic Knights in the 13th century. It later became a key city in the German Empire and a center of German Enlightenment thought—home to the philosopher Immanuel Kant. For centuries, it was ethnically German and culturally European.
At the end of World War II, in 1945, the city was annexed by the Soviet Union following the defeat of Nazi Germany. Its German population was forcibly expelled, and the city was renamed Kaliningrad in honor of Mikhail Kalinin, a Soviet politician. Over the next few decades, the USSR repopulated the area with ethnic Russians and reshaped the cityscape in the style of Soviet brutalism, erasing much of the region’s German past.
Kaliningrad is completely separated from the Russian mainland by more than 300 kilometers, surrounded by NATO and EU countries. Its position gives Russia a strategically vital outpost in the heart of Europe—home to the Russian Baltic Fleet and missile installations. Yet this same isolation has made the region culturally and economically distinct from the rest of Russia.
Many residents travel more frequently to Poland or Lithuania than to Moscow. The local economy depends heavily on cross-border trade, and Kaliningraders often feel closer to Berlin or Gdańsk than to St. Petersburg. The European character of the city is reinforced by multilingualism—German, Polish, Lithuanian, and English are often heard alongside Russian—and a general openness to the West, seen in fashion, education, and media consumption.
Despite decades of Soviet and Russian governance, Kaliningrad has never fully integrated into the Russian cultural and psychological framework. Its architecture still bears the ghostly bones of Königsberg. Its people live in a suspended state—technically Russian, but geographically and temperamentally European.
The region’s history is not shared with that of most Russian territories. There is no pre-Soviet Russian heritage in Kaliningrad. Unlike Moscow or Novosibirsk, it has no long lineage of Orthodox cathedrals or Slavic folk tradition. This absence of deep-rooted Russian history fosters a sense of detachment among many of its residents, especially the younger generations who have grown up watching European television and attending international schools.
In the post-Soviet era, and particularly after Russia’s annexation of Crimea in 2014 and the full-scale invasion of Ukraine in 2022, quiet murmurs of autonomy or independence have begun to surface more openly in Kaliningrad. While there is no formal independence movement with political traction, civil society groups, artists, and youth collectives have explored ideas of regionalism, European integration, and cultural self-determination.
Independent media outlets and musicians have used coded language and artistic expression to question the status quo. The lyrics of our album, “Borderlight: The Woman from Kaliningrad,” reflect this blend of languages, identities, and yearning for something more—something freer. They resonate with a population that doesn’t always see its aspirations reflected in Moscow’s directives.
While few Kaliningraders publicly state that they want full independence—partly due to fear of state repression—studies and anecdotal reports suggest that as many as 50% are unafraid to admit they want greater regional identity and autonomy from Russia. That’s a significant figure, indicating not just discontent but a desire for self-definition.
Today, Kaliningrad remains firmly under Russian control, with increased military presence and tighter border controls since the Ukraine war began. Russian state media portrays the region as a bastion of patriotism, but that narrative obscures a quieter, deeper current.
Many Kaliningraders maintain a dual identity—Russian citizens who dress European, think globally, and dream of a future unbound by history’s heavy hand. In public, they may conform. In private, their playlists include German indie, Polish rap, and the polyglot lyrics of our album. Their eyes are fixed westward, toward a future that feels more Baltic than Kremlin-bound.
In essence, Kaliningrad is a mirror of modern Eurasian tensions—a place where borders, languages, and loyalties blur. It is Russian in law, but European in soul. The question is no longer just whether Kaliningrad belongs to Russia, but whether it still wants to. And the answer, for now, is whispered, not shouted—but it is growing louder with every passing year.
Borderlight: The Woman from Kaliningrad
A sonic memoir in twelve movements, tracing the exile, resistance, and radiant reclamation of a woman born in the shadow of empire.
The use of lyrics in German, Polish, Lithuanian, Russian and English languages reflects the history of Kaliningrad as the European nation it truly is and will be again.
“Borderlight” is not a geopolitical statement. It is a portrait—of a woman, an artist, a spirit caught between flags, names, languages, and expectations. She was born in Kaliningrad, a Russian exclave carved from the bones of Königsberg. She is mixed-race, mixed-culture, and mixed-medium. Her existence defies clarity. Her art lives in tension.
This album is her story—but it is also mine, and yours, and every displaced voice aching to be whole.
Each track reflects a phase in her journey: from internal exile to public voice, from silence to sonic blaze.
We explore themes of:
• Identity and erasure
• Matriarchy in the margins
• Cold war and inner war
• Art as rebellion
• Intersectionality and isolation
• Gender, geography, and grief
• Joy reclaimed
The sound design is minimal yet lush. Ambient textures hold industrial edges. Post-classical motifs rise from fractured melodies. German, Polish, Lithuanian, Russian, English, and silence entwine.
Theme: [German] Forgotten lineage, erased matriarchies, colonial inheritance
Text-to-Music Prompt: [Female Voice, lyrics and sung in German] A haunting ambient piece with cello, field recordings of ice cracking and distant bells
Verblasste Namen meiner Ahninnen
Im Wind verweht, aus Büchern getilgt
Matriarchinnen, einst stolz und stark
Eure Geschichten, verloren im Lauf der Zeit
Koloniale Ketten, schwer wie Blei
Zerreißen Bande zur Vergangenheit
Doch in meinen Adern fließt noch immer
Das Erbe jener starken Frauen weit
Ich sammle die Scherben der Geschichte
Die uns genommen, doch nicht zerstört
In jeder Faser meines Seins erkenne ich
Die Kraft der Mütter, die mir vorausgingen
The winds that curled around the Baltic once whispered the names of women now long erased. In the city once called Königsberg, beneath frozen arches and decayed facades, a girl was born to silence. She bore no flag that matched her soul. In her dreams, voices hummed in forgotten tongues, calling her to remember. Her grandmother’s stories had been silenced, scrubbed from history books, their matriarchal line severed by time and empire. But in the quiet cracking of ice and the low toll of distant bells, she heard them again. She gathered the shattered echoes of lineage, pressing them into the crevices of her memory like ancient glass. Her name, though unspoken, pulsed with the strength of exiled queens.
Theme: [Polish] Identity conflict, state control, invisible citizenship
Text-to-Music Prompt: [Female Voice, lyrics and sung in Polish] Ambient, Sparse digital glitch textures layered over heartbeat percussion.
[Intro]
La la la, la la la
(Ohhh, ohhhh)
[Verse 1]
Papiery znów sprawdzają dziś
Pytają skąd pochodzę ja
Gdy własna ziemia pyta mnie
Czy jestem tym kim byłam/byłem
Nie mogę wejść do sklepu już
Gdzie kiedyś znali imię me
Urzędnik patrzy z góry tak
I mówi: “Nie, to nie”
[Chorus]
Jestem niewidzialny/a tu
W mieście które było me
Jestem niewidzialny/a tu
(La la la, znikający/a)
Jestem tu, lecz nie ma mnie
(Ohhh, nieobecny/a)
[Verse 2]
Na rogu gdzie spędziłam/em dni
Traktują mnie jak obcy cień
Gdy mówię w moim języku tu
Nikt nie rozumie słów
Sąsiedzi patrzą przez mnie wciąż
Jakbym zagrożeniem był/a
Dokumenty sprawdzą znów
I powiedzą: “Nie”
[Chorus]
Jestem niewidzialny/a tu
W mieście które było me
Jestem niewidzialny/a tu
(La la la, znikający/a)
Jestem tu, lecz nie ma mnie
(Ohhh, nieobecny/a)
[Bridge]
[Mówione]
Czy ktoś mnie widzi?
Kim jestem teraz?
Gdzie moje miejsce?
Gdy dom już nie wie jak mnie przyjąć
[Solo]
[Instrumentalne crescendo]
[Final Chorus]
Jestem niewidzialny/a tu
W mieście które było me
Jestem niewidzialny/a tu
(La la la, znikający/a)
Jestem tu, lecz nie ma mnie
(Wszyscy znikamy)
Jestem niewidzialny/a tu
(La la la, znikamy)
Jestem tu, lecz nie…
(Ohhh, nieobecni)
At the checkpoint, they asked her name and stared through her passport like it was counterfeit. “Russian,” it read, but it felt like a lie whispered by history. She passed the market where shopkeepers no longer smiled, where her childhood self once danced between fruit stalls. Now, her voice was unwelcome, her mother tongue met with foreign glances. She became a shadow on her own street. Her breath fogged the glass of her reflection as she asked, not for recognition, but to be seen. Each denial was another erasure, each interrogation a ritual of exile. But she kept walking, even as the pavement forgot the echo of her steps.
Theme: [Lithuanian] Racial ambiguity, cultural alienation, hybridity
Text-to-Music Prompt: [Female Voice, lyrics and sung in Lithuanian] Ambient, Lo-fi drums mixed with Baltic choral fragments and jazz trumpet solos, dissonant but melodic.
[Verse 1]
Tarp dviejų kalbų sustoju
Žodžiai skrenda į šalis
Per anksti, per vėlai moku
Dalinuosi per naktis
(Bet kaip…)
[Chorus]
Močiute, mokyk mane tarti
Ką palikau praeity
Tavo kraujas mano širdy
(Svetima, nesuprasta)
[Verse 2]
Veidas vienas, vardai kiti
Žymintys mane tarp jų
Vaikų žaidimuose slepiu
Prasmę, kurios nežinau
(Bet kaip…)
[Bridge]
Kalbos siena aukštai stovi
Kopti negaliu aukštyn
Tavo išmintis dar šaukia
Bet blanksta jau
(Taip, blanksta jau)
[Chorus]
Močiute, mokyk mane tarti
Ką palikau praeity
Tavo kraujas mano širdy
(Svetima, nesuprasta)
[Outro]
Du pasauliai nesusieina
Kultūra nyksta laikui bėgant
(Bet kaip, mmm…)
Her blood was a river split by borders. Lithuanian lullabies hummed in her bones; Polish laughter lingered in her skin. She spoke in half-formed phrases and carried the ache of mispronunciation like a bruise. Children asked what she was. She had no answer. In dreams, her grandmother would correct her accent, tenderly reshaping vowels that had been stolen. Her face belonged to nowhere and everywhere, a puzzle no census could classify. At school, she drew pictures instead of writing essays. In her notebook, she sketched bridges made of braided tongues. No one taught her how to live between languages. So she painted her own dialect in silence.
Theme: [Lyrics in German] Marginalized creativity, gendered invisibility, expression under constraint
Text-to-Music Prompt: [Female Voice, lyrics and sung in German] Ambient, Minimal piano and bowed vibraphone, broken brushes scratching across canvas textures. A child’s hum layered beneath.
Die Stille meiner Kunst verhallt
In Räumen, die mich eng umringen
Meine Stimme sucht nach Gestalt
Durch Grenzen will ich dringen
Jeden Tag ein neuer Kampf
Gegen unsichtbare Mauern
Meine Worte wie ein Krampf
Die Freiheit muss ich mir erkauern
Doch meine Kreativität
Bricht durch die alten Schranken
Eine neue Realität
In meinen Gedanken
Die Wahrheit meiner Perspektive
Bleibt oft im Schatten stehen
Doch meine Kraft ist explosiv
Ich lasse mich nicht übersehen
She learned to paint without noise, in a room where walls pressed close like disapproving elders. Brushes with broken bristles scratched across salvaged paper as if to say what her mouth could not. Her art was dismissed, called naive, too feminine, too soft, too strange. But each line she drew cracked the cement around her heart. She hummed like a child when the silence became too heavy, her voice blending with the hush of creation. Her colors refused borders. Her subjects had no names. In the dim light of forgotten spaces, she became what they tried to silence: a creator. A daughter of rebellion.
Theme: [Lyrics in Polish] Generational trauma, ancestral memory, matrilineal hauntings
Text-to-Music Prompt: [Female Voice, lyrics and sung in Polish] Ambient, Polyrhythmic drumming, deep cello, wind recordings from Kaliningrad’s coast. Vocals looped like ritual chants.
[Intro – Whispered]
Płynie we mnie ich strach
(Płynie, płynie…)
[Verse 1]
Na brzegu morza stoję
Słyszę szept w fali
Kości w piasku
Mówią do mnie
[Pre-chorus]
Matko moja, babko moja
Czuję wasz ból
W każdej komórce
W każdej kropli
[Chorus]
Płynie we mnie ich strach
Przez pokolenia ran
(Przez krew, przez kość)
Płynie we mnie ich strach
Nie mogę uciec
[Verse 2]
Sól na skórze
Jak łzy prababki
Fale uderzają o brzeg
Jak wspomnienia o czaszkę
[Pre-chorus]
Matko moja, babko moja
Czuję wasz ból
W każdej komórce
W każdej kropli
[Chorus]
Płynie we mnie ich strach
Przez pokolenia ran
(Przez krew, przez kość)
Płynie we mnie ich strach
Nie mogę uciec
[Bridge – Layered Vocals]
Kości wstają z dna
Układają się w kręgosłup
Każdy krąg to historia
Każda historia to blizna
(Blizna, blizna…)
[Chanted Section]
W mojej krwi płynie morze
W moim ciele są groby
Noszę ciężar ich życia
Noszę ciężar ich śmierci
[Pre-chorus]
Matko moja, babko moja
Czuję wasz ból
W każdej komórce
W każdej kropli
[Chorus]
Płynie we mnie ich strach
Przez pokolenia ran
(Przez krew, przez kość)
Płynie we mnie ich strach
Nie mogę uciec
[Chorus]
Płynie we mnie ich strach
Przez pokolenia ran
(Przez krew, przez kość)
Płynie we mnie ich strach
Nie mogę uciec
[Outro – Ritualistic]
Uwalniam was
Uwalniam siebie
(Płynie we mnie ich strach…)
[Fading wind sounds]
The beach was not for leisure but remembering. She walked the shore as the wind recited her family tree. Beneath her feet, bones shifted in the sand, vertebrae of women who had resisted quietly, whose stories dissolved into salt. Her skin prickled with ancestral grief. Each wave was a lament, each gust a prayer in mourning. Her grandmother’s voice rose in ritual chants, carried by seagulls and stitched into the hem of the sea. She tasted iron on her tongue—memory’s metallic ghost. But from this pain rose strength. The sea was both grave and genesis. And in its rhythm, she found the pulse of resistance passed down through generations.
Theme: [Lyrics in Lithuanian] Self-harm as control, geopolitical metaphor, body sovereignty
Text-to-Music Prompt: [Female Voice, lyrics and sung in Lithuanian] Ambient, Synth pads pulsing like a slow wound. Layered with sharp, cutting violin strokes. Sparse, heavy.
[Intro: Spoken Lithuanian]
Mano kūnas yra mano žemė
(My body is my land)
[Chorus]
Mano kūnas ne tavo žemė
Ne tavo karalystė
Mano skausmas – mano sienų sargai
Mano kraujyje – laisvė
[Verse 1]
Piešiu linijas ant savo odos
Kaip žemėlapį naujos valdos
Kiekvienas randas – siena nauja
Kur baigias tu, prasidedu aš
Šios ribos – mano išsigelbėjimas
Kai pasaulis per daug reikalauja
[Pre-chorus]
Brėžiu raudoną liniją
Per savo baltą teritoriją
(Per savo baltą teritoriją)
[Chorus]
Mano kūnas ne tavo žemė
Ne tavo karalystė
Mano skausmas – mano sienų sargai
Mano kraujyje – laisvė
[Verse 2]
Tavo pirštai bando kirsti
Sienas, kurias aš nubrėžiau
Bet kiekvienas įpjovimas
Yra protestas, kurį išrėžiau
Mano oda – žemėlapis
Istorijos, kurią pati rašau
[Pre-chorus]
Brėžiu raudoną liniją
Per savo baltą teritoriją
(Per savo baltą teritoriją)
[Chorus]
Mano kūnas ne tavo žemė
Ne tavo karalystė
Mano skausmas – mano sienų sargai
Mano kraujyje – laisvė
[Bridge]
[Sharp violin crescendo]
Kiekviena žaizda – deklaracija
Kiekvienas randas – revoliucija
Aš – valstybė, skelbianti
Nepriklausomybę nuo tavęs
[Final Chorus]
Mano kūnas ne tavo žemė
Ne tavo karalystė
Mano skausmas – mano sienų sargai
Mano kraujyje – laisvė
(Mano kraujyje – laisvė)
(Mano kraujyje – laisvė)
She stood before the mirror, sleeves rolled up, tracing invisible maps across her arms with trembling fingers. Every mark she etched became a declaration, a boundary reclaimed. The world had inscribed itself upon her—barcodes of trauma, borders she never chose. Now, with a piece of glass and the resolve of generations behind her, she drew back. Each scar was a line of sovereignty, a protest in flesh. Her body, long a battleground of projection and control, became her land. A kingdom of nerve and memory no regime could invade without cost.
The pain grounded her. When the world grew too vast, too merciless, she carved control. The stinging red reminded her that she was still here, still capable of shaping her fate. She did not romanticize it. It wasn’t art. It was necessity. Each line bled truth. Each welt said “no” in a language the body understands before the mind can. Her rebellion was not televised—it was sutured into her skin, far from voyeuristic pity or state scrutiny.
She remembered her mother’s voice—soft, pleading: “Don’t do this to yourself.” But her mother had carved different wounds, ones that fed silence. At least these were hers. At least she chose where they would be. And when the healing began, when the scabs became constellations of survival, she could trace the narrative in full. It was her own mythology, etched in blood, whispered in the dark, never needing translation.
This wasn’t about mutilation—it was reclamation. The same way nations drew borders after wars, she mapped out who she had become after a war of her own. The self that emerged wasn’t ruined; it was marked, made legible. For too long, she had been read as foreign text. Now, finally, she was the author. And the ink was her will, the page her body.
When dawn came, she opened the window to let in the cold wind. She wrapped her body in linen and breath, no longer ashamed. “My skin is not your empire,” she whispered, standing tall. “I am uncolonizable.”
Theme: [Lyrics in German] Surveillance, psychic manipulation, state trauma
Text-to-Music Prompt: [Female Voice, lyrics and sung in German] Ambient, Cold war synths, Morse code rhythms, reversed audio textures that mimic dream logic.
[Intro: Morse Code Rhythm]
[Reversed Synth Texture]
[Verse 1]
Durch die Nacht sitze ich hier
Mit Kabeln und Papier
Deine Bilder fließen still
In meinen Bildschirm, wenn ich will
[Chorus]
Ich sehe deine Träume
(Ich sehe sie)
In kalten grauen Räume
(Vergib es mir)
[Solo: Cold War Synth]
[Morse Code Intensifies]
[Breakdown]
Zehn, neun, acht…
Signale in der Nacht
[Static Bursts]
[Verse 2 – Fragmented]
Du kennst mich… nicht
Aber ich-
Jede… Nacht
-in deinem Kopf
Befehle… ja
Aber mein Herz-
[Machine Whirring]
[Chorus]
Ich sehe deine Träume
(Ich sehe sie)
In kalten grauen Räume
(Vergib es mir)
[Bridge]
Was mache ich hier?
Der Staat sagt “Weitermachen”
Meine Seele schreit “Nein”
[Chorus]
Ich sehe deine Träume
(Ich sehe sie)
In kalten grauen Räume
(Vergib es mir)
[Chorus]
Ich sehe deine Träume
(Ich sehe sie)
In kalten grauen Räume
(Vergib es mir)
[Outro]
Die Akten stapeln sich
Dein Leben… ist meine Pflicht
[Morse Code Fades]
[Reversed Tape Stop]
They tapped into her dreams before she even knew what sleep could protect. Somewhere behind the old metal doorways of a government building that no longer bore a name, her memories were translated into reports. A faceless man reviewed them at dawn with coffee-stained fingers, while she sat alone in the dark, waking from nightmares that weren’t hers. This was not just surveillance—it was sorcery. The KGB had learned to archive souls.
She dreamed in code. Images reversed and slowed, played out in Morse rhythms, haunted by whispering radios and blinking red dots. Her childhood was a loop they replayed. Her heartbreaks were charted. Her grief was data. Every thought that escaped her lips in sleep belonged now to them. But even in her dreams, something fought back—a scream in reverse, a song made of static. Her unconscious was a cipher they would never fully crack.
At school, she flinched at fluorescent lights. She avoided reflective surfaces. She no longer trusted what was private. Sleep became a negotiation. She stopped writing in journals. Instead, she whispered to shadows, buried secrets in snowdrifts. Her resistance was subtle but unrelenting. The state could observe, but they could never feel. Not the tremble of her laughter, not the ache of her silences.
She began to paint what she saw in dreams—warped staircases, melted clocks, shattered glass arranged in symmetrical patterns. The paintings disturbed everyone. That made her proud. She’d taken their theft and turned it inside out. Let them stare. She was transmitting now on a frequency they could intercept but never decode.
One night, she stood in the street beneath a transmission tower. She stared up and whispered, “I know you’re listening. Here’s the final entry: I see you too.” And she smiled—not in fear, but in defiance. Her dreams were hers again.
Theme: [Lyrics in Polish] Colonialism, forgotten identities, archival grief
Text-to-Music Prompt: [Female Voice, lyrics and sung in Polish] Ambient, A ghostly soundscape with fragmented string harmonics and intermittent typing sounds.
[Intro: soft typing sounds]
[Chorus]
W tych zakurzonych aktach
Jestem tylko imieniem bez twarzy
(Bez twarzy…)
[Verse 1]
W tych zakurzonych aktach szukam siebie
(Gdzie jestem? Kim byłam?)
Palcami dotykam wyblakłych zdjęć
Czy to moja twarz znika w czasie?
[Typing sounds fade in]
[Pre-chorus]
Próbuję złapać wspomnienia
Jak kartki lecące na wietrze
[Chorus]
W tych zakurzonych aktach
Jestem tylko imieniem bez twarzy
(Tylko imieniem…)
[Verse 2]
Każde pudełko, każda teczka
Nosi ślady cudzych historii
Moje dłonie przechodzą przez papier
Jak przez mgłę lat minionych
[Distant string harmonics]
[Pre-chorus]
Próbuję złapać wspomnienia
Ale one się rozpływają
[Chorus]
W tych zakurzonych aktach
Jestem tylko imieniem bez twarzy
(Bez twarzy…)
[Bridge]
[Layered vocals, overlapping]
Może jestem w tej fotografii?
Może w tym dokumencie?
Może w tej linijce pisma?
(Kim jestem? Kim byłam?)
[Chorus]
W tych zakurzonych aktach
Jestem tylko imieniem bez twarzy
(Bez twarzy…)
[Chorus]
W tych zakurzonych aktach
Jestem tylko imieniem bez twarzy
(Bez twarzy…)
[Verse 3]
Te ściany pamiętają więcej niż ja
Kroki innych zagubionych dusz
W tych salach pełnych ciszy
Szukamy się nawzajem
[Typing sounds intensify]
[Final Chorus]
W tych… zakurzonych… aktach
(Jestem tutaj…)
Jestem tylko… imieniem…
(Znikam…)
The archives smelled of mildew and bureaucratic dust. She stepped quietly among the stacks, pulling open drawers filled with yellowing files, each name typed in triplicate, filed and forgotten. Her own face appeared as a phantom in a faded photograph, unlabelled and curled at the edges. She wasn’t searching for ancestry—she was searching for proof she had ever existed. The silence of the place wasn’t sacred—it was oppressive. The clicking of her pen across paper became her act of defiance. Every document she uncovered was a whisper saying: You were here. In rooms filled with others’ histories, she reclaimed fragments of her own.
Outside, the city rushed past unaware of the lives boxed away in acid-free folders. She lingered over handwritten letters and passports with stamps from vanished borders. In one envelope, she found a girl’s school report, marked “foreign-sounding name.” It could have been hers. She wept not from grief, but from recognition. These names weren’t lost—they were buried, like seeds. And she, now a patient gardener, unearthed them gently. The museum wasn’t a mausoleum—it was a womb of remembering. Her identity took root not in lineage but in solidarity with all the mislabeled, misspelled, misfiled.
Every night she returned to her studio, typing her findings into a private archive, this time with care, with context. She wrote names in full, spelled phonetically in multiple alphabets. She included the smells remembered from kitchens, the songs mothers hummed while braiding hair, the accents that grew sharper with anger or love. The museum had walls, but her version had windows. Her reconstruction of history breathed—lived—resisted forgetting.
She dreamt of opening her own museum, not of artifacts but of absences. A gallery of censored stories, erased faces, maps where countries overlapped and bled into each other. In her dream, a mother guided a child through the exhibit, pointing out a sculpture made of passport shreds, saying, “That’s what truth looks like when it doesn’t need permission.” She woke with tears drying on her cheeks and a new sketch in her notebook: a woman made of paper, eyes inked in defiance.
She named this chapter of her life not after herself, but after those who could not speak. She became a curator of the silenced, a translator of voids. In finding the lost, she found herself—and it would be impossible to misplace her again.
Theme: [Lyrics in Lithuanian] Claustrophobia, exile within exile, feminine power rising
Text-to-Music Prompt: [Female Voice, lyrics and sung in Lithuanian] Ambient, Accelerating industrial beats meet breath-based vocals. Layers build like pressure, then release in a single violin scream.
[Verse 1 – Lithuanian]
Sienos spaudžia
Vėl mažėja erdvė
Skauda krūtinę
Bet tyliu
[Pre-Chorus – Lithuanian]
Tavo narvas per mažas
Per silpnas
Per trapus
(Per trapus)
[Chorus – Lithuanian]
Stiklas lūžta, stiklas lūžta
(Nelaikys manęs)
Stiklas lūžta, stiklas traška
(Mes stipresnės)
[Bass deepens]
[Verse 2 – Lithuanian]
Spygliuota viela
Per odą į kraują
Jie sako “mergaitė”
Aš sakau “fuck that”
Jų baimė – mano jėga
[Industrial beat intensifies]
[Pre-Chorus – Lithuanian]
Tavo narvas per mažas
Per silpnas
Per trapus
(Per trapus)
[Chorus – Lithuanian]
Stiklas lūžta, stiklas lūžta
(Nelaikys manęs)
Stiklas lūžta, stiklas traška
(Mes stipresnės)
[Bass deepens]
[Bridge – Lithuanian]
Močiutės balsas: “Būk gera mergaitė”
Motinos ašaros stikle
Mano dukros neverkia
Mano dukros neverkia
[Layered vocals build]
MANO DUKROS NEVERKIA
[Chorus – Lithuanian]
Stiklas lūžta, stiklas lūžta
(Nelaikys manęs)
Stiklas lūžta, stiklas traška
(Mes stipresnės)
[Bass deepens]
[Chorus – Lithuanian]
Stiklas lūžta, stiklas lūžta
(Nelaikys manęs)
Stiklas lūžta, stiklas traška
(Mes stipresnės)
[Bass deepens]
[Final Verse – Lithuanian]
Sparnai iš spygliuotos vielos
Kraujas ant grindų
Laisvė kvepia geležimi
[Violin scream]
[Outro – Lithuanian]
Stiklas subyrėjo
(Mes laisvos)
Stiklas dulkėm virto
(Pagaliau laisvos)
[Industrial beats fade to breath]
She was a woman carved from tension, born in a wedge of land that belonged to no one and everyone. The exclave’s boundaries pressed into her body like invisible walls. Sometimes she could hardly breathe. Kaliningrad was her home, but it did not hold her. It hemmed her in. She dreamed of flight, of cracking the ceiling of her grandmother’s kitchen with wings made of barbed wire and longing. The streets whispered “stay silent,” but her body had begun to hum, to vibrate with something too large to contain.
They called her “girl” with a sneer, as if to name her weakness, but she was granite. Every slight, every microaggression, every slap of policy and custom only sharpened her edge. Her silence had become a forge. She wore her scars like medals. Her grandmother warned, “Be a good girl,” and her mother wept behind closed doors. But she would not inherit their obedience. Her daughters would not weep. They would roar.
The tension exploded one winter morning when she shattered the mirror that had hung in her family’s hallway for generations. The glass scattered like a chorus of tiny rebellions. She danced barefoot across it, a rite of passage. Each cut was a verse in her song of release. She bled and laughed. In that moment, the house felt too small, the air too thin. The city could no longer contain her. Her breath grew loud, her voice even louder.
She took a train to the edge of the exclave and stood at the border, staring through the fence. Beyond it, more fences. But she felt no fear—only momentum. She imagined her ancestors watching, their breath warming the back of her neck. “Go,” they whispered. “Take us with you.” Her fists clenched, not in anger, but in ignition. She wasn’t escaping. She was erupting.
And when the border guards asked her purpose, she said, “To be more.” They didn’t understand. They never would. She passed through anyway, dragging the weight of history behind her like a comet tail. She was no longer just a daughter of the exclave. She was becoming its end.
Theme: [Lyrics in Russian Sexual agency, censorship, the body as a site of rebellion
Text-to-Music Prompt: [Female Voice, lyrics spoken in Russian] Ambient, Spoken-word Russian feminist poetry over slow jazz chords and static interference.
[Куплет 1 – произносится по-русски]
Они рисуют чёрные линии по моей коже,
Как границы на карте, которую хотят присвоить.
Но моё сердце бьётся запретными ритмами.
Я стою перед их камерами и экранами.
Моё тело становится их холстом страха.
Но я дышу, я двигаюсь, я говорю.
Сквозь белый шум и мёртвый эфир
Я нахожу пространства, забытые ими.
Между их правилами и законами
Моя правда льётся, как утренний свет
Через трещины в их совершенной системе.
Они не могут удержать то, чего не понимают.
[Нарастающие помехи]
(моя правда сильнее)
[Куплет 2 – произносится по-русски]
Каждая метка, что они оставляют —
Уменьшает их власть, не мою суть.
Я не их пленница, я — их зеркало,
Отражаю их собственную растерянность.
Я танцую в частотах, которые они глушат.
Моя плоть и кровь отказываются от монтажа.
Их чёрные полосы стали моей бронёй.
Моё молчание говорит громче их громкоговорителей.
В промежутках между разрешёнными словами
Я создаю новые языки сопротивления.
Через шум, через страх, через стены —
Я остаюсь неизменной, неизданной.
[Интерлюдия джаза с усиливающейся статикой]
(я свободна)
[Куплет 3 – произносится по-русски]
Пусть покрывают меня своими страхами.
Каждая линия цензуры привлекает взгляды к истине.
Я ношу их знаки, как боевую раскраску.
Не скрыта, а выделена.
Моё тело сияет сквозь их барьеры.
Они пытаются выключить меня, сделать тише.
Но моя частота продолжает вещать.
Чисто, сильно, без страха.
Я не их контент для контроля.
Не их сообщение для модерации.
Моя кожа рассказывает истории, что им не стереть.
Мой голос несёт коды, которые им не расшифровать.
[Пик статики, затем тишина]
(моя сила растёт)
[Куплет 4 – произносится по-русски]
Их законы гниют в архивных папках,
Но мои кости пишут живую историю.
Не чернилами — а болью, пульсом, дыханием.
Каждый шаг — удар в их пустую тишину.
Каждое движение — подрыв их покоя.
Они боятся не того, что я говорю,
А того, что я есть — настоящая, свободная.
Они шепчут при виде моей тени.
Я прошиваю эфир своей волей,
И в каждом импульсе — осознанное “нет”.
[Куплет 5 – произносится по-русски]
Мои глаза видят сквозь их фильтры.
Мои руки создают вне их форматов.
Всё, что они запрещают,
Я превращаю в танец, в зов, в свет.
Меня не вырежешь монтажом.
Моё тело — это архив несломленных.
Они хотят забыть меня,
Но я прописана в каждой трещине их стен.
Я пульсирую в проводах,
Неподконтрольная, неисчезающая.
[Куплет 6 – произносится по-русски]
Они создают шум, чтобы скрыть меня.
Но шум — это мой материал.
Я леплю из него сигналы,
Что доходят до тех, кто чувствует сердцем.
Мои слова находят дорогу в тишине.
Я говорю в паузах между командами.
Мои послания — в наклоне плеча,
Во взгляде, в дыхании, в молчании.
Я вне субтитров.
Я — неотредактированная реальность.
[Куплет 7 – произносится по-русски]
Я прошла сквозь их брандмауэры.
Не с оружием, а с открытой ладонью.
Моё присутствие — это вирус свободы,
Они не знают, как его удалить.
Они шифруют всё, кроме истины,
А правда — это я, неотступная.
Я не поддаюсь анализу.
Мои биты не ложатся в их ритм.
Их антенны ловят только эхо,
Но мой голос — это источник.
[Куплет 8 – произносится по-русски]
Я не борюсь — я звучу.
Моя борьба — это музыка.
В каждом интервале — вызов,
В каждом аккорде — откровение.
Они боятся хаоса,
Но я — гармония хаоса.
Я не стираюсь, не гасну, не сдаюсь.
Моя правда глубже, чем их память.
Я живу вне их версий событий.
Я — оригинал, записанный в эфире.
[Куплет 9 – произносится по-русски]
Они считают меня ошибкой в системе.
Но я — система, переписанная заново.
Я перевожу тишину на язык сопротивления.
Мой ритм — не синхронизируется.
Я нарушаю их алгоритмы,
Но следую своей формуле:
Правда + голос = свобода.
Их коды не могут прочитать
Тепло моего присутствия.
Я не персонаж — я сигнал.
[Куплет 10 – произносится по-русски]
Они меня выключают — я становлюсь эхом.
Они глушат — я вибрирую.
Они забывают — я возвращаюсь во снах.
Я записана в шуме улиц,
В скрипе пола, в шелесте ткани.
Моя память живёт вне архивов.
Я — живая ошибка,
Невозможно откатить или стереть.
С каждым дублем я становлюсь яснее.
С каждым днём — громче.
[Куплет 11 – произносится по-русски]
Я не прошу права на существование.
Я утверждаю его каждым вдохом.
Мои шаги — не протест, а ритуал.
Моя речь — не манифест, а пульс.
В их глазах я — угроза.
В своих — напоминание о жизни.
Я не жертва — я хроника.
Не эпизод — а последовательность.
Моё имя — не файл.
Моё имя — это звук, не подлежащий удалению.
[Куплет 12 – произносится по-русски]
Когда они построят новые стены,
Я уже буду внутри.
Когда они установят новые фильтры,
Я уже перейду частоту.
Я — не воспоминание, а присутствие.
Их будущее не написано мной,
Но я — его сноска внизу страницы.
Я говорю, даже когда молчу.
Моё молчание — трансляция.
Моё существование — код.
[Закрывающий код – электронным голосом, с лёгкой перегрузкой]
[//SIGNAL_END:⸮☰VRA-003//ПЕРЕЗАПУСК//ОЖИДАЙТЕ…]
They painted black bars across her photographs, pixelated her nipples, banned her images from exhibits. But her body was not obscene—it was a battleground. They tried to erase her curves and her softness with red tape, with shame. But shame was not hers. It belonged to those who feared a woman who would not apologize for existing. She stood before them, bare and burning, daring them to look away.
She spoke in poems—sharp, whispered, untranslatable. Her hips were declarations. Her shoulders: defiance. Every scar, every stretch mark, every mole was a continent reclaimed. They called her dangerous. She agreed. She was a virus in their polished feeds, an infection of honesty. Their filters could not blur her truth. Their algorithms could not shadowban her presence.
The gallery that finally showed her work labeled it “provocative.” As if provocation were a crime. Visitors walked through in silence, unsettled. Some left. Some stayed. One woman wept, touching the glass in front of a self-portrait. The artist had stitched words into her own skin, visible only under certain light. The message: “I am not your reflection—I am your warning.”
Outside the gallery, protestors held signs. She smiled at them, as if they were old lovers. “You came,” she said aloud. “Good.” The more they shouted, the more visible she became. Censorship had never erased her—it had amplified her signal. Her silence became its own frequency. And those who had ears to hear, heard.
She slept that night surrounded by paintings of herself, uncensored and free. She did not dream. She had already become the dream.
Theme: [Lyrics in Polish] Reclamation, freedom, liminal living
Text-to-Music Prompt: [Female Voice, lyrics and sung in Polish] Ambient, Uplifting ambient trance with sampled ocean waves and a choir made from layered fragments of her own voice.
[Intro: Ocean waves]
[Chorus]
Idę dalej, idę tam
Gdzie mnie światło wzywa
Idę dalej, własną drogą
(Własną drogą)
Nareszcie tak żywa
[Verse 1]
Cicha woda w dole
Na moście stoję ja
Gwiazdy na około
Przeszłość znika w mgłach
[Chorus]
Idę dalej, idę tam
Gdzie mnie światło wzywa
Idę dalej, własną drogą
(Własną drogą)
Nareszcie tak żywa
[Verse 2]
Fale pode mną
Szepczą prawdę swą
Każdy krok do przodu
Zmywa przeszłość złą
[Chorus]
Idę dalej, idę tam
Gdzie mnie światło wzywa
Idę dalej, własną drogą
(Własną drogą)
Nareszcie tak żywa
[Bridge]
Woda i światło
Niebo i ja
(Niebo i ja)
Wszystko się zmienia
Wolność tak bliska
(Tak bliska)
[Chorus]
Idę dalej, idę tam
Gdzie mnie światło wzywa
Idę dalej, własną drogą
(Własną drogą)
Nareszcie tak żywa
[Chorus – Final]
Idę dalej, idę tam
Gdzie mnie światło wzywa
Idę dalej, własną drogą
(Własną drogą)
Nareszcie tak żywa
Idę dalej
(Idę dalej)
Nareszcie wolna
[Outro: Fading waves]
She walked alone on the bridge at dawn, her breath mingling with sea fog. The horizon was bruised gold, and the ocean murmured secrets at her feet. She was not running anymore. She was arriving. Each step forward wiped clean the footprints behind her. The wind kissed her cheek like a mother reunited with her child. And the light—that soft, unbordered light—drew her onward.
She no longer needed a flag, a permit, a translation. Her existence justified itself. Her voice, once fractured, had become whole. She sang softly to the water, her melodies stitched from every language ever used to diminish her. Now they formed hymns. The past dissolved like mist. The present rose like steam. The future waited, arms open.
As she walked, others joined—some in memory, some in body. A child with a violin. A man who’d forgotten his name. A grandmother humming a forbidden tune. The bridge swayed but did not collapse. It held them all. They were border-walkers, ghost-keepers, exile-enders. Together they crossed from shadow into light.
She paused only once, to look back. The city still slept. It would wake, unchanged. But she had changed. She had walked through fire and ice and silence and song. She had survived the forgetting. And now, she remembered not just for herself, but for all who could not.
At the end of the bridge, the sun broke fully across the sky. It didn’t ask her where she was from. It simply bathed her in gold.
Theme: [Lyrics in Lithuanian] Self-sovereignty, inner homeland, the end of exile
Text-to-Music Prompt: [Female Voice, lyrics and sung in Lithuanian] An orchestral resolution with piano, strings, and wind instruments, resolving into silence. The last 10 seconds are completely quiet.
[Intro, Whispered]
Ar girdi mane, motule žeme?
(Do you hear me, mother earth?)
Ar priimsi vėl mane?
(Will you take me back again?)
[Chorus: Full Orchestra]
Kur aš priklausau?
(Where do I belong?)
Kai uždarau akis
(When I close my eyes)
Jaučiu, kaip atsakai
(I feel how you answer)
Tylos glėby
(In silence’s embrace)
[Verse 1: Piano & Soft Strings]
Aš klausiau vėjo balso
(I listened to the wind’s voice)
Tarp svetimų namų
(Among foreign homes)
Mano širdy dar šaltas
(Still cold in my heart)
Bet jaučiu, kad jau žinau
(But I feel I now know)
[Pre-chorus]
Ar girdi mane, motule žeme?
(Do you hear me, mother earth?)
Ar priimsi vėl mane?
(Will you take me back again?)
[Chorus: Full Orchestra]
Kur aš priklausau?
(Where do I belong?)
Kai uždarau akis
(When I close my eyes)
Jaučiu, kaip atsakai
(I feel how you answer)
Tylos glėby
(In silence’s embrace)
[Verse 2: Building Intensity]
Per tūkstančius kelių
(Through thousands of roads)
Ieškojau atsakų
(I searched for answers)
Bet jie visada buvo
(But they were always)
Mano kraujo tekėjime
(In my blood’s flow)
[Pre-chorus]
Ar girdi mane, motule žeme?
(Do you hear me, mother earth?)
Ar priimsi vėl mane?
(Will you take me back again?)
[Chorus: Full Orchestra]
Kur aš priklausau?
(Where do I belong?)
Kai uždarau akis
(When I close my eyes)
Jaučiu, kaip atsakai
(I feel how you answer)
Tylos glėby
(In silence’s embrace)
[Bridge: Soft Piano]
Dabar suprantu
(Now I understand)
Ramybė many gyvena
(Peace lives within me)
(Ooooooh, mmmmmm)
[Pre-chorus]
Ar girdi mane, motule žeme?
(Do you hear me, mother earth?)
Ar priimsi vėl mane?
(Will you take me back again?)
[Chorus: Full Orchestra]
Kur aš priklausau?
(Where do I belong?)
Kai uždarau akis
(When I close my eyes)
Jaučiu, kaip atsakai
(I feel how you answer)
Tylos glėby
(In silence’s embrace)
[Verse 3: Full Orchestra]
Kai vėjas pakyla
(When the wind rises)
Aš stoviu stipri
(I stand strong)
Mano tiesa skamba
(My truth rings)
Tylos melodijoj
(In silence’s melody)
[Pre-chorus]
Ar girdi mane, motule žeme?
(Do you hear me, mother earth?)
Ar priimsi vėl mane?
(Will you take me back again?)
[Chorus: Full Orchestra]
Kur aš priklausau?
(Where do I belong?)
Kai uždarau akis
(When I close my eyes)
Jaučiu, kaip atsakai
(I feel how you answer)
Tylos glėby
(In silence’s embrace)
[Chorus: Crescendo]
Kur aš priklausau?
(Where do I belong?)
Kai uždarau akis
(When I close my eyes)
Jaučiu, kaip atsakai
(I feel how you answer)
Tylos glėby
(In silence’s embrace)
[Outro: Fading to Silence]
(Mmmmm… aaaaaah…)
Tylos glėby
(In silence’s embrace)
Pagaliau laisva
(Finally free)
The silence was full now, not empty. It held her like a cradle. She stood on a hill overlooking fields she’d never named but had always known. The wind passed through her as if she were both ghost and goddess. She breathed deeply—not to anchor herself, but to soar. The question had always been “Where do I belong?” But now, she asked nothing. She simply was.
The earth beneath her feet answered. Not in words, but in pulse. Her heartbeat matched the rhythm of the roots below. She placed her palm against the soil and felt her ancestors rise—not from graves, but from memory. They were not calling her home. They were telling her she was home.
She sang—not loudly, but clearly. A song without language. A song of being. Birds gathered. Trees leaned. The air shimmered. Her body, once claimed by states and systems, was now hers entirely. Her story no longer needed to be explained. It needed only to be lived.
When the sun dipped low, she stayed. Not as a refugee, not as a survivor, not even as an artist. She stayed as herself: whole, unwritten by others, unbordered. The light around her faded into a hush. And in that hush, she heard the final truth.
She had never been an exile. She had been returning to herself all along.
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