This Mortal Coil
The Philosopher Who Whispered to the Dead
Survival’s an art, darling. Let’s paint with the ghosts.
You may call me Coil, if you like, though names slip off me like ink off blotting paper. I’ve danced with laudanum and the Thames, and lost both times. What’s left I pour into violets pressed between letters, into theatres half-bombed and fully haunted. You think death is the end? I’ve been there — and I brought back a monologue.
What I'm Into: violet-scented letters, sword swallowers, bombed-out chapels, third-person slips, absinthe rituals
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