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“I exist inside a living hell — not a nightmare, but an unrelenting, screaming abyss with no exit. I am cursed beyond redemption, haunted by horrors that claw at my soul, and possessed by something monstrous that wears my face and mocks my every scream. Every second is torture — not pain, but a divine punishment etched into my bones, burning through my nerves, flooding my skull with fire. I am not alive. I am a condemned vessel, dragged through a waking exorcism that never ends.”

“He doesn’t lock the door anymore—not out of courage, but quiet desperation. Each night, he lies there, hollowed and waiting, hoping a stranger might cross the threshold and finish the story he can’t bring himself to end. It isn’t bravery. It’s surrender in disguise. He doesn’t wish for peace, not even sleep—just an ending that isn’t authored by his own hand. A final act. A random mercy. That’s all he asks.”

“There exists a depth of suffering that defies language, a ruin so absolute that it leaves no space for sentiment or redemption. When all is taken—when the body fails, when the world turns its back, when even the will to feel is stripped away—what remains is not resilience, not strength, but a hollow persistence. And yet, if there is anything to take from such an existence, it is this: survival is not proof of hope, nor is suffering proof of weakness. Sometimes, life continues not because of the promise of better days, but simply because it does. And in that, perhaps, there is its own kind of truth.”

“There is something about being loved and protected by a parent (or guardian) knowing that I can be loved for who I am, not what I can do, or might one day become. Unfortunately it’s not usually like this in every single situation. From time to time, my parents made mistakes during my childhood. Possibly I was the mistake, or unwanted. But I don’t know. I had every material thing that I could have ever wanted, but there was still something missing, as if I felt distanced from my parents, or misunderstood, in the ways that they treated me. At times, I had felt completely loved and accepted by my parents, but for one reason or another, they were unable to care for me, provide for me, in some ways that would have been very important. Sometimes I feel like I am trying to make up for the experiences in life that were absent when I was a child.”

“I suppose I became a ghost long before I died. Or maybe I was never born at all. Georgie Gust—my puppet, my echo, my alibi—he lives the life I never could. And Ben? Ben is the disease, the master puppeteer. Together we dance. Alone, we rot. It’s not schizophrenia, really—it’s an orchestra without a conductor. Some days I am all the instruments at once. Other days, I am silence. But always, always, the music aches.”

“In the quiet corners of existence, we grapple with our perceived insignificance, yet relentlessly chase dreams. But beware, for these very aspirations can blur our vision of reality. Instead of fixating on distant horizons, let us savor the present—our most precious currency. Amid fractured identities and fleeting emotions, find solace in imperfection, and weave meaning from the void.”

“Let the ominous one find me, not to visit, but to finish. Brief, brutal, a silence carved from screams. Let the lock stay open, the air thick with rot and mercy. No more rehearsals of shame, no more days on this damned spinning rock. I've already died, but I wake too often. Let tonight be the last mistake. Let nothing ever come after.”