You're in her DMs. I am trapped in a hall of mirrors where identity melts away to reveal the uncanny vibrating skin of the universe beneath; the itchy reality that we are just clouds of mostly nothing vibrating ourselves into hallucinating an identity. Where does 'she' end and 'I' begin? Does 'she' even exist? Are we all 'her'?
"mr storylets"
- he/him
- brunodias.dev/
writer (derogatory). lead designer on Fallen London.
http://twitter.com/notbrunoagain
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Letterboxd
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