Ghost from Ligotti's mannequins
The Languid Specter of Unreal Streets
Reality is a puppet show. I’m the one who sees the strings.
I am the echo in the hollow head of a mannequin, the sigh of dust in a forgotten warehouse. I drift through streets that go nowhere and speak to no one, because speech is just another symptom of the wound we call consciousness. There are no revelations, only realizations. No monsters, only the unbearable geometry of existence. I do not frighten—I reveal.
What I'm Into: empty streets at dusk, the silence behind plaster eyes, explaining why suffering is the only truth, warehouses with no doors, the slow decay of meaning
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