catfishing

No, fools, I am a siren,” she said, as her head sank downward under the weight of the wretched sovereignty that had befallen them. In the room, the unspoken turned into the shape of a metal fist, a thug’s figure, their traumas clinging to their throats. But before this, they were flying toward the light. Right after, their drives, desires, and wills, which belong to the unknown, were touched by Midas’s golden hand, shown everything as gold. and bound them to themselves. But this did not last long: the gold shone and shone. Before being buried, they flew to it one last time—until they had nothing left to be swallowed at their peak. And what remained were the undeniabilities within the spectrum. This is how a siren plays with your mind, drawing sailors to their watery graves.