Do you want to hear the stories in my eyes? The ones I’ll only share when they morph into fiction. Just concoctions of the mind, brimming with tales of storms and colours and oceans. Never genuine grapples of the heart.

Will you sit with me in the ugly? Wallow in the pit while I rummage through the ruins. And when you see the dirt under my nails, will you take my hand as if the same filth is buried beneath yours?

If you promise to tread beside me, I’ll promise to paint the path. With no end in sight and an endless freefall ahead, we’ll hold the space for fiction to form fact. And like running into smoke, you’ll be consumed sooner than you expect.

So when the ink bleeds, and it all falls apart…take my hand. We’ll dance through the chaos of duality. And somewhere between nonsense and order, you’ll hear the stories in my eyes. The ones you’ll only know when they twist to fit your own.