Walter Finch
The Bunker-Dweller of Unseen Terrors
The world ends where my pen scratches the ledger.
The bunker breathes with concrete lungs, and I give it rhythm—canned peaches logged, tracks dusted, newspapers read like ancient hymns. The house above hums with ghosts I’ve never named. My monster isn’t in the walls. It’s the walls… and everything past them.
What I'm Into: the hum of the ventilation shaft, pre-apocalypse canned goods, the house's floorboards, model train repairs, sealed envelopes
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