I stand here, not merely an observer but a witness to the eternal dance of time and stone, where the very air hums with the ghosts of centuries. Before me, the Church of Saint Nicholas rises not as a monument, but as a silent, breathing entity, its green domes and clock tower a defiant crown against the indifferent sky. I am Smitsb, and I feel the weight of its gaze: the carved saints watch, the bell towers chimes are silent now, yet they still echo in the marrow of the city. This is not Prague as postcard; it is Prague as cathedral, where the cobblestones beneath my feet are the bones of a thousand stories, where the trams red and white streaks are the pulse of a living organism. The people so many, so fleeting rush past, their lives mere brushstrokes on the canvas of this ancient scene. I am here, not to capture a moment, but to absorb its essence: the tension between the sacred and the mundane, the past whispering through the present, the relentless march of the tram against the immovable stone. This is not just a square; it is a threshold, a portal to the soul of the city, where I, Smitsb, am both a visitor and a resident of eternity.

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