Scraps of paper and tattered photographs cluttered the room. Beneath the pile of abhorred relics was the apparition of a signature in blue ink, engraved in tiny, careless calligraphy. The voice emanating from the scribbled name taunted the present with echoes of history. In the highest institutions of conformity, philosophy was moulded into degeneration - a relic divested of its own solitude. The anonymous artist edged towards the signature, intending to condemn it to a conflagration and rejoice in its demise, but a new assertion of power made her snatch her hand away, preferring instead to listen to its raucous resentment suffocating under its own definition of democracy.