Beneath the cloak of night, in the silence that suffocates like a thick fog, my true work begins—work that the faint of heart would dare not even whisper about. It’s a craft that dances on the edge of shadows, where the line between the ethereal and the corporeal blurs.
Each step I take is measured, a silent pact with the darkness, as I weave through the alleys and backstreets of this sleeping city. My tools? Not the crude instruments of flesh and bone, but the delicate threads of fear, ambition, and desire. I’m an artist, a sculptor of the intangible, moulding the very essence of human emotion into something palpable, something that can be touched and felt.
As the world slumbers, ignorant of the forces that sway just beyond the veil of their comprehension, I toil. And as dawn’s first light breaches the horizon, I retreat, a spectre dissolving into the mists of morning, leaving behind my creations to stir and unsettle the waking world. My work is never seen, but always felt—a whisper in the mind, a shiver down the spine.
For in the quietest moments, in the depths of night, I am the architect of dreams and nightmares alike.
Mike Jackson 