A Cursed Bottle of Ink.

There are bottles filled with wine to soothe, with poison to silence, or with perfume to beguile.

Mine, however, contains ink. An ink distilled from shadows, memory, and the faintest whispers of the grave. It is a restless ink, one that stains deeper than parchment, seeping into the marrow of whoever dares linger upon its marks.

From this ink I draw figures, environments, and phenomena that ripple like omens glimpsed through cracked mirrors. Each line is a thread spun from patience and precision, yet each form carries with it a sense of inevitability, as though it has always waited for this moment to be seen.

The bottle is cursed, you see, because it will not empty. The ink replenishes, swelling with stories unasked for, characters uninvited, and visions too haunting to resist. I am not so much their creator as I am their vessel, my hand merely the one that opens the door.

And so, what you see here does not hang in stillness. What you see watches, whispers, waits.

Don’t look too long. The visions are blinding.