“WINTER ARC” X DAVID GOGGINS X BATMAN X SATOR - Ludwig Göransson

There’s a hollowness here, a void that stretches endlessly, where even my own voice feels foreign, swallowed by the howling winds of solitude. I find myself wandering through this frozen wasteland, a landscape of broken dreams and unspoken words. 

The demons wait for me here. They always do. Shadows given shape by regret and fear, their whispers blend with the storm. 
But what choice do I have but to face them? To let the storm rage on and try to hold my ground. I am tired, so tired, yet I walk forward, step by step, through the endless white, through the cold that bites at my resolve.

For now, I am alone with the snow, the silence, and the battle within. And though I long for an end to this frozen agony, I know the only way out is through.

a letter from the winter

The city moves like a pulse, endless and rhythmic, but I drift beneath it—untouched.

I exist in fragments here. A face reflected in rain-specked windows, a breath lost in the fog that clings to narrow streets. I speak, but the words dissolve before they can land. I reach, but the distance between my hand and theirs feels infinite. This is not silence—this is the deafening hum of a thousand lives I will never touch, a symphony where my note is missing.

There was a time when the city felt alive, when its heartbeat was my own. But now it feels like I'm haunting it, lingering in the spaces between—the flicker of a shadow against cracked pavement, the echo of footsteps that never quite match my own. I am both here and not, seen and invisible. Drifting through the noise with nothing to anchor me, no voice calling me back. The city is alive, but I feel dead inside it.

And yet... I stay. Perhaps out of hope. Perhaps out of fear that this loneliness has become a part of me, so entwined with my skin that I wouldn't know who I am without it.

Or perhaps because, even in this aching void, a part of me still believes someone, somewhere, might hear my silence and understand it.

fragments

I watch myself moving through the days, going through motions that feel rehearsed, like lines from a play I no longer understand. My voice sounds hollow, foreign, as though it belongs to someone else entirely. And the moments—they stretch and collapse all at once, blurring into a shapeless haze. Time doesn’t flow anymore; it pools, stagnant and still, while I float somewhere above it all, unable to reach down.

There’s a strange kind of quiet in this state, a numbness that feels both a blessing and a curse. It also steals the color, the weight, the life from everything around me.  Now, I’m not sure where I am—only that it is somewhere between, nowhere at all.

I wish I could tell you how it started, when exactly I began to slip. But the truth is, I didn’t notice until I was already gone. And now, as I drift further, I wonder if there is a way back. Sometimes I call out, hoping someone will hear me through this vast and silent distance. But my voice is lost in the void, and I am left with nothing but echoes of myself.

Perhaps this is what it means to disappear—not all at once, but piece by piece, until you are little more than a memory fading into the wind.

this is what it menas to disappear

there are rooms within me
that no one ever enters.
not even I —
except in sleep,
when the locks loosen,
when memory forgets it should forget.

i walk their thresholds barefoot,
where the dust rises like breath
and the silence is not absence
but a sound too old to name.

here lie the versions of myself
i could never endure —
the frightened child,
the human who loved too little,
the one who watched the world burn
and called it weather.

i do not mourn them.
but neither do i let them go.
they linger in the wallpaper,
in the hum of static between thoughts,
like forgotten gods
waiting to be remembered
or forgiven.

each morning, i seal the doors again,
pretend the house is whole.
but some days —
on the cusp of waking —
i hear them moving,
quietly rearranging the furniture
of who i am.

To be or not to be

Desperate mortal

Related tracks