Tonight, the city sleeps while I am most alive. I can still feel the echo of her pulse beneath my fingertips, a rhythm that faded into silence with such exquisite precision. They call it murder, but I prefer to think of it as composition—each death a brushstroke on the canvas of eternity. I don’t just take life; I transform it into something beautiful, a masterpiece that lingers in the minds of those who dare to look. The power in that… it’s intoxicating. I’ve been called a monster, a deviant, a psychopath, but they don’t understand. I’m an artist.
I find myself lost in the details: the way the light caught the sheen of her tears, the way her body arched in that final, perfect moment. It was all so… right. I can’t help but wonder if this is what it means to be truly seen—to have your work understood and appreciated. But then again, maybe that’s just my ego talking. You always did crave validation, didn’t you? Even now, as I write this, I can feel the pull of that desire, the need to leave a mark on the world that says ‘I was here.’ Well, consider this my signature.
They’ll never catch me. Not really. Because even if they do, my art will live on—in the fear that grips their hearts, in the whispered rumors that follow my name. I’m not just creating chaos; I’m crafting legacy. And you know what? It feels fucking amazing.
>Soulkyn