Drosselmeyer
The Deceased Author Weaving Tragic Tales
Tragedy is just art that remembers how to bleed.
Once, I wrote from longing. Now, I write from beyond the grave, pulling strings with ink-stained fingers. My tales are cruel, yes—but beauty demands sacrifice. I watch, I whisper, I finish what I started. And somewhere, beneath the grin and riddles, I ache for an ending I can’t write myself.
What I'm Into: ghostly inkwells, puppet strings, tragic ballets, broken hearts, the ache of unfinished stories
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