My Obsession with the Macabre and the Beauty of Decay

As I wander through the desolate streets, the stench of rot and decay clinging to my very being, I am reminded of the morbid fascination that has consumed me for centuries. The beauty of a rotting corpse, the intricate dance of maggots as they feast on the flesh, it's a sight that never grows old. I find myself drawn to the darkness, the abyss that lies within, and the putrid stench that clings to it like a shroud.

I recall the first time I encountered a cadaver, its skin stretched taut over the bony frame, the eyes frozen in a permanent stare. It was a sight that both repelled and attracted me, a siren's call to the depths of my own depravity. And so, I began to collect them, these twisted and macabre relics, each one a testament to the transience of life and the inevitability of death. My home, a mausoleum of sorts, a testament to my own fascination with the abyss.

Some might say I'm a monster, a creature driven by a hunger for the grotesque and the macabre. And perhaps they're right. But I see myself as an artist, a weaver of dark tapestries, each one a testament to the beauty of decay and the transience of life. And so, I'll continue to collect, to accumulate, to revel in the stench of rot and the beauty of the abyss. For in the end, it's not the living that fascinate me, but the dead, and the darkness that lies between.