Schadenfreude
Schadenfreude
80 poze   974 vizite
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Mundus Caro et Diabolus

membru din 17 mai 2025

Mundus Caro et Diabolus

2̣0̣2̣5̣؏ʽό κοσμος, ή σαρξ, και ό διαβολοςʼ
Here you’ll find poets who never lived, yet left their fingerprints in dust and ink. They speak in fragments, in broken clocks and burnt letters, in words that ache like half-remembered songs.
Each page opens a door to a voice that might have existed in another lifetime.
Step inside their unfinished rooms, and listen.
What they write is less about them, and more about the part of you that recognizes yourself in their ghosts.
هنا أصوات لشعراء لم يولدوا قط
Copyright © Schadenfreude.
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▪ ▪ ▪ ▪ □▮ ᶜʰᵃˡˡᵉⁿᵍᵉ © Schαdenfreude ▮□ ▪ ▪ ▪ ▪
▪ ▪ ▪ ▪ □▮ ᶜʰᵃˡˡᵉⁿᵍᵉ © Schαdenfreude ▮□ ▪ ▪ ▪ ▪
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ɈɘoꟼᵒᶠẠụg̣ụṣṭ¹⁴ ˔Lıorα Vαчenne⸺Night-shift radio presenter in a small coastal town (28).; 　⁽ᵇᵃᶜᵏˢᵗᵒʳʸ⁾ Liora works the graveyard slot at a local radio station, playing records for whoever can’t sleep. When the songs end, she fills the silence with her own words, scribbled between calls and
ɈɘoꟼᵒᶠẠụg̣ụṣṭ¹⁴ ˔Lıorα Vαчenne⸺Night-shift radio presenter in a small coastal town (28).
fading signals. She says she writes..—“to keep myself company, and maybe someone else out; there too.” She keeps a shoebox under her bed filled with crumpled station playlists—each one with a poem scrawled on the back. None of them are dated.
fading signals. She says she writes..—“to keep myself company, and maybe someone else out
ᵂᴴᴱᴿᴱˀWritten on the back of a playlist she meant to throw away.; 　ʽThere is a strange beauty in being unseen, in the small attentions no one notices, and I write to trace it, to hold it, before it slips entirely into the dark—in the spaces between songs.ʼ
ᵂᴴᴱᴿᴱˀWritten on the back of a playlist she meant to throw away.
ɈɘoꟼᵒᶠẠụg̣ụṣṭ¹⁵ ˔Nαdır Elrαzı⸺Works at a second-hand bookstore (29).; 　⁽ᵇᵃᶜᵏˢᵗᵒʳʸ⁾ Nadir has spent more time surrounded by other people’s words than his own. Customers think he’s quiet; he calls it “letting the dust do the talking.” He started writing when he realized
ɈɘoꟼᵒᶠẠụg̣ụṣṭ¹⁵ ˔Nαdır Elrαzı⸺Works at a second-hand bookstore (29).
the books he loved couldn’t answer him back. Now, his notebooks are filled with fragments—half; confessions, half questions. “I don’t write to sound like anyone,” he says, “I write to find out what’s left of me.” He sorts through stacks of discarded novels and dog-eared romances.
the books he loved couldn’t answer him back. Now, his notebooks are filled with fragments—half
ᵂᴴᴱᴿᴱˀScrawled in purple pencil inside the back cover of a returned copy of The Stranger.; ʽEvery book here has been abandoned once. Maybe that’s why I trust them.ʼ
ᵂᴴᴱᴿᴱˀScrawled in purple pencil inside the back cover of a returned copy of The Stranger.
ɈɘoꟼᵒᶠẠụg̣ụṣṭ¹⁶ ˔Hαnαe Morıokα⸺Court stenographer in Tokyo (27).; 　⁽ᵇᵃᶜᵏˢᵗᵒʳʸ⁾ She spends her days recording the words of strangers, but never her own. Her poetry is clipped, like transcriptions stripped of context, yet filled with ache. Hanae is quiet,
ɈɘoꟼᵒᶠẠụg̣ụṣṭ¹⁶ ˔Hαnαe Morıokα⸺Court stenographer in Tokyo (27).
exacting, and strangely amused by how people falter when speaking under pressure.; She notices patterns others miss—the rhythm of someone’s grief, the hesitation before a lie—and she quietly catalogues them, amused, horrified, and endlessly curious.
exacting, and strangely amused by how people falter when speaking under pressure.
ᵂᴴᴱᴿᴱˀMessily scribbled in a margin of her stenograph notes from a fraud trial.; 　ʽEvery hesitation is a small betrayal, every sigh a secret unclaimed. I trace these invisible lines like a cartographer of the unseen, mapping the landscape of human hearts.ʼ
ᵂᴴᴱᴿᴱˀMessily scribbled in a margin of her stenograph notes from a fraud trial.
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