The page is never truly blank. Even before the ink stains it, shadows gather in its pale expanse, whispering in silence. Each word I summon arrives like a flicker at the edge of vision-half-born from memory, half-buried in dream. writing is an act of haunting: to capture a thought is to cage a ghost, yet the ghost always lingers, restless unfinished.
I write not to illuminate, but to dwell in the fog between clarity and obscurity. Every sentence is a corridor. Every pause, a door left ajar. And in the stillness between words, something waits.
Dark&Stormi 