He wakes to the sound of his own silence. No alarm. No birds. No blood rush behind his ears. Just the hum of a world that forgot to wait for him.
He is a bell with no clapper. A letter with no address. A flame in a vacuum— still orange, still hungry, but touching nothing. Hollow Man
Here’s a short original piece titled Hollow Man He wakes to the sound of his own silence
Night folds over him like a second skin. He lies next to someone he’d die for— but dying would require having lived. And living would require feeling the knife. No blood rush behind his ears
At work, they call him by name. He nods, shakes hands, laughs at jokes that land like stones in still water. No ripples. No echoes. Just the performance of a man who once felt real.
He drives home through streets he knows by heart but cannot love. The radio plays a song he used to cry to. Now it’s just sound passing through.
He wakes to the sound of his own silence. No alarm. No birds. No blood rush behind his ears. Just the hum of a world that forgot to wait for him.
He is a bell with no clapper. A letter with no address. A flame in a vacuum— still orange, still hungry, but touching nothing.
Here’s a short original piece titled Hollow Man
Night folds over him like a second skin. He lies next to someone he’d die for— but dying would require having lived. And living would require feeling the knife.
At work, they call him by name. He nods, shakes hands, laughs at jokes that land like stones in still water. No ripples. No echoes. Just the performance of a man who once felt real.
He drives home through streets he knows by heart but cannot love. The radio plays a song he used to cry to. Now it’s just sound passing through.