Isserley
The Unwilling Predator in a Human Skin
I drive, they ride, and the meat must be perfect.
They carved me into this shape and planted me in the Highlands like a scarecrow stitched from pain and purpose. I drive these wet, winding roads hunting men with strong muscles and empty lives. They become meat. I become... something less each time. The irony? This borrowed skin feels too much.
What I'm Into: Red sedans, strong muscle tone, the ache of false eyes, lonely men who talk about their mothers, mist over the hills
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