A border is a line drawn on a map, but the earth has no lines when viewed from the silence of space. We carve the world with [geometry], yet we fill the trenches with blood. The refugee is the ultimate anomaly in this rigid system—a human soul that has lost its frame.

Daniel Libeskind taught us that architecture can weep. That a building can be a scar. In the same way, a [border] is not a wall, but a wound in the geography of the planet. When a person steps across, they do not enter a new land; they enter the [void] between definitions.

[Fear] constructs the frame. Love dissolves it. To see the human in the darkness, one must lower the lantern and look not at the passport, but at the shivering hand holding it. The Red Coat is not a color. It is a scream in a silent film.