Fragments of function. Hints of feeling.
Fragments of function. Hints of feeling.
I don’t dream anymore; only unravel.
Sleep, for me, is no longer a refuge but a trapdoor. What visits me there isn't whimsy or insight, but ruin. In this advanced state of psychological erosion, all ventures into the unconscious come bearing teeth.
I’ve been haunted by the same few nightmares since I was eight—faithful companions in my nightly descent. I’ll document them here, alongside any new horrors that decide to crawl out and introduce themselves.
Light sleepers have it easy. They get to wake up before the monsters finish their work.
It always starts the same.
A spotlight. A forest. Something just out of sight.
What follows is part panic, part ritual. A ride I never chose to board.
And every time I wake, I swear something followed me back.
It begins mid-run — no memory of why, just motion.
Eight playground slides arranged in a perfect square, hovering above a fog-choked ocean. My father is just ahead of me… until the metal gives out.
It begins in silence - not peace, but pressure.
You’re holding something precious, though you can’t remember why.
There are eyes behind the walls, and they’ve been waiting.
Sooner or later, you will offer it… whether you understand it or not.