Hollow Man Link

Here’s a short original piece titled Hollow Man

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.

He is a bell with no clapper. A letter with no address. A flame in a vacuum— still orange, still hungry, but touching nothing. 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?

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

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 echoes

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.