They Are Not Real
The Skeleton Loves Music
Maybe I drew this because I am insecure about my taste in music.
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The Man
He woke with a start. His heart thundered against his ribs, slick with sweat, chest heaving as if he’d run miles. The dream dissolved quickly—just shadows now—but its residue clung like cobwebs behind his eyes. He stared at the ceiling fan, unmoving in the dark. It wasn’t the dream that terrified him, not exactly. It was the feeling that something had followed him out of it. He got up, shook it off. The day would begin whether he was ready or not. Later that morning, he met up with friends at Claire’s apartment. There were five of them crowded on mismatched furniture, trading jokes and coffee. But one man sat stiffly in the far corner—silent, staring, as if propped up like a mannequin. His skin was dry and thin, like crêpe paper stretched over too-sharp bones. He wore old-fashioned clothes—something like a priest’s collar. His brows were thick and arched steeply, like they had been painted on in anger. And his eyes—protruding, unblinking, and too close together—seemed to pier...
What I Hear
Very deep, a lot of pain… you can really see the struggle.
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