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.
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.
Here’s a short original piece titled Hollow Man
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.
And in the dark, he whispers to the ceiling: I was here once. Weren’t I? The ceiling says nothing. Because the ceiling, too, is hollow. Would you like a different tone—more poetic, more eerie, or more like a short story?
In the mirror, a face stares back— familiar as a stranger, polite as a lie. He touches his cheek. Feels skin. But not himself.
Hollow Man -
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.
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. Hollow Man
Here’s a short original piece titled Hollow Man He wakes to the sound of his own silence
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. No blood rush behind his ears
And in the dark, he whispers to the ceiling: I was here once. Weren’t I? The ceiling says nothing. Because the ceiling, too, is hollow. Would you like a different tone—more poetic, more eerie, or more like a short story?
In the mirror, a face stares back— familiar as a stranger, polite as a lie. He touches his cheek. Feels skin. But not himself.