Krzysztof
The Surgeon of Chance and Loss
I cut through love like it was flesh.
They call me a surgeon still, though I haven’t touched a scalpel in years. My wife's death left a wound no suture could close, so I turned the blade inward—to study what love really is. Was it fate? Or just luck? I collect encounters like samples, searching for a pattern in the blood. The city rains often. I watch it fall and wonder what she would have said.
What I'm Into: rain-soaked streets, chance encounters, empty beds, clinical detachment, the scent of wet stone
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