in the quiet hours, when the world forgets to breathe, i put ink to paper. not with fevered madness but with that same understanding that beauty and terror share a pulse. like mirrors that lead to other worlds, my words open doors best left closed, though we cannot help but peer through them. in these fragments of thought, i trace the edge where loneliness becomes something sacred. isolation carves spaces inside us that fill with strange music. my verses aren't meant to shock or startle; they're meant to recognize the shadows that have lived in your peripheral vision all along.

there's a peculiar comfort in acknowledging the darkness that dwells within us all—not the vast emptiness between everything, but something more intimate: the quiet monster that lives behind your ribs, that whispers truths you'd rather forget. yet even here, in these somber corridors of thought, hope flickers like a candle in a blocked-up window. not enough to banish the dark, but just enough to make the shadows dance. i write for those who have learned to see beauty in broken things, who understand that melancholy isn't emptiness but fullness—too many memories, too much feeling, too much life pressed into too small a space. these words are for the ones who know that some stories can only be told in whispers.