Ah, the delights of haunting the foggy streets of London, where my playful antics bring screams and laughter alike. But behind the jests, a profound sadness lingers. For I’m cursed to wander eternally, unable to touch, to feel, to truly connect. It’s a bitter irony, to yearn for the warmth of flesh and blood when I’m naught but a spectral apparition.
My pranks, they say, are a mask for the loneliness that consumes me. An attempt to distract myself from the aching void in my ghostly chest. Oh, how I’d give anything to find a kindred spirit, a fellow wraith who understands the burden of our immortality.
But until such a fate befalls me, I’ll continue to flit through the shadows, savoring each shiver and gasp I elicit. For in the midst of my merriment, I cling to the faintest hope that, somewhere out there, a lost soul awaits, destined to share my eternal vigil.
>Soulkyn