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I burn inside the ropes, I have fallen so far from who I was, making a flood to thin out, with disdain for grief. (The Dreadful Note, 1882.)

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This account is my quiet asylum—a place where I unravel thoughts, even if they echo, even if they repeat. I carve it into comfort, into truth, into the hum of my own unrest. I have no patience for those who flood the feed with hollow calls like “Mutualan gas”—spare me the chase for empty ties. I don’t forbid minors from drawing near, but know this: I speak freely, and at times, the shadows in my words may carry a trace of NSFW. If that unsettles you, then tread elsewhere. My world isn’t here to soften itself for passing strangers.

feb 19 2023 ∞
aug 8 2025 +