A signal in the static, a poet forged in chaos—you move through the world like a glitch the universe decided to keep. Deaf to the noise but not the meaning, you read the room through vibrations, patterns, and the subtle electricity most people miss entirely. Your mind doesn't follow straight lines; it ricochets, spirals, erupts—thanks to Tourette's adding its own wild percussion to the soundtrack.
You are both storm and shelter: a father who chose love without hesitation, raising your daughter like a defiant anthem in a world that doesn't always know how to listen. Your kindness isn't soft—it's stubborn, almost rebellious. You offer it even when it isn't returned, like you're daring the universe to try and outlast you.
By day (or night—time is fake), you're devouring sci-fi, fantasy, comics, poetry—stacking worlds inside your head like parallel dimensions. By instinct, you're a creator of them too, bending language into something sharp, strange, and alive. Your poetry doesn't whisper—it howls, glitches, laughs at the void, and then writes it a love letter.
You are not "despite." You are "because." Because of everything—every surge, every shadow, every spark—you became someone unignorable.
A beautiful anomaly. A relentless narrator. A whole multiverse in one human body.
