π INTRODUCTION π―οΈ I write here as the anguished archivist, a scholar whose heart beats only when the pages doβ half-human, half-vampireβs sworn historian, devoted entirely to the holiness of ink and the treachery of knowledge.
β‘ β¦ ABOUT ME β¦ β‘ alias: the anguished archivist age: measured in first editions and the years spent reading beside the undead pronouns: whatever youβd whisper while leaning over a forbidden text, breath warm on the margin dwelling: deep in the stacks where leather-bound volumes sweat secrets and the scent of old blood clings to the spines occupation: tending to books as though they were fragile bodiesβ restoring lost histories, binding mortals and monsters alike to the record
β‘ β¦ OCCUPATION OF MY SOUL β¦ β‘ β chronicler of vampires who love like tragedies and mourn like epics β often mistaken for a ghost lingering in the stacks β perfumed in dust, ink, and the ghost of someoneβs centuries-old thirst
π here you will find: β wrestling, annotated like poetry and enjoyed with feral delight β the supernatural, examined as though footnotes could hold back the dark β stray memes tucked between chapters like pressed flowers β vampires: sorrowful, feral, scholarly, decadentβ not metaphors, but neighbors β half started essays on cinema, and laments written by a trembling flame
β‘ β¦ BOUNDARIES OF THE STACKS β¦ β‘ The archives lock their iron gates to: β anyone under 18 (the shadows do not make exceptions) β hollow corridors (blank blogs, bots, empty voices) β those who defend cruelty in any of its disguises β anyone who sneers at queerness, fatness, disability, difference, or softness β fools who insist fiction leaves no wound β tr*mp supporters, MAGA loyalists, and all right-wing specters unfit for sacred shelves
Enter only as an adult, with reverence and readiness. The vampires read you as easily as you read them.
