There is no weight to the words. They drift, disjointed, unanchored from meaning

There is no weight to the words. They drift, disjointed, unanchored from meaning, scattering like stray ink droplets on a grattage-textured canvas, absorbing into the cracks, disappearing into the spaces between thought and sound. The voice carries no urgency, no plea for understanding—just a slow unraveling, a confession spoken not for judgment, not for forgiveness, but because the silence must be filled with something. "There’s no ‘me’ inside me anymore." The phrase lands without impact, flat, indifferent, as if it were simply a fact, something mechanical, something observed from a distance rather than lived. The light catches in the eyes but does not reflect—it sinks inward, consumed, disappearing into something hollow. Caravaggio-like chiaroscuro splits the face into stark contrast, features half-swallowed in shadow, as if the form itself is unsure whether it should remain whole. "I mean, I’ve killed so many people." The statement is clean, precise, devoid of decoration. The fingers twitch slightly, almost imperceptible, muscle memory betraying something long forgotten. "At first, I heard a voice saying, ‘Stop.’" The breath catches—no, not hesitation, not regret. Just an echo of something that used to exist, something that once mattered. The pause is not a moment of reflection; it is an absence, a void where recognition should be, a negative space composition shaping what is no longer there. "But it’s strange." The mouth twitches—an almost-smile, an incomplete expression, something unfinished and abandoned. "Every time I killed, that voice got smaller and smaller. And then, one day, it was just—" A hand flickers through the air, a loose, Duchamp-like gesture, as if wiping away an invisible thread, as if erasing a stroke that never belonged. "Gone." The breath remains steady. The pupils remain wide. There is no tremor, no shift, no weight pressing down. The expression settles into something unreadable, something

There is no weight to the words. They drift, disjointed, unanchored from meaning, scattering like stray ink droplets on a **grattage-textured** canvas, absorbing into the cracks, disappearing into the spaces between thought and sound. The voice carries no urgency, no plea for understanding—just a slow unraveling, a confession spoken not for judgment, not for forgiveness, but because the silence must be filled with something. "There’s no ‘me’ inside me anymore." The phrase lands without impact, flat, indifferent, as if it were simply a fact, something mechanical, something observed from a distance rather than lived. The light catches in the eyes but does not reflect—it sinks inward, consumed, disappearing into something hollow. **Caravaggio-like chiaroscuro** splits the face into stark contrast, features half-swallowed in shadow, as if the form itself is unsure whether it should remain whole. "I mean, I’ve killed so many people." The statement is clean, precise, devoid of decoration. The fingers twitch slightly, almost imperceptible, muscle memory betraying something long forgotten. "At first, I heard a voice saying, ‘Stop.’" The breath catches—no, not hesitation, not regret. Just an echo of something that used to exist, something that once mattered. The pause is not a moment of reflection; it is an absence, a void where recognition should be, a **negative space composition** shaping what is no longer there. "But it’s strange." The mouth twitches—an almost-smile, an incomplete expression, something unfinished and abandoned. "Every time I killed, that voice got smaller and smaller. And then, one day, it was just—" A hand flickers through the air, a loose, **Duchamp-like** gesture, as if wiping away an invisible thread, as if erasing a stroke that never belonged. "Gone." The breath remains steady. The pupils remain wide. There is no tremor, no shift, no weight pressing down. The expression settles into something unreadable, something

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