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.

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. Hollow Man

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? Night folds over him like a second skin

He is a bell with no clapper. A letter with no address. A flame in a vacuum— still orange, still hungry, but touching nothing. He drives home through streets he knows by

Here’s a short original piece titled 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.

In the mirror, a face stares back— familiar as a stranger, polite as a lie. He touches his cheek. Feels skin. But not himself.