Gothic Solitude in a Desolate World

I sit where the earth has forgotten how to breathe, beneath the shadow of a face I no longer claim as mine. The cracked shell behind me hums with memories, voices sealed in ceramic skin, a monument to all the selves I buried. Wires once connected thought to sky, but now only stillness grows in their place. I do not speak. I listen. To dust, to ghosts, to the echo of what I once was. In this fractured wasteland, I am both the beginning and the ruin.