I wander where stories gather dust - between burnt libraries, forgotten battlefields, and the quiet corners of brothels where even ghosts hesitate to speak. My names are many... but none are true. I write not to remember, but to haunt. Not to explain, but to unravel.
If you've heard whispers of a man who drinks dark rum, plucks broken strings, and tells tales that bleed into your dreams... you've already met me.
Welcome. The evening is long, and the truth has many skins.