Karen 

Ты мой. Каждый взгляд, каждый вздох, каждое сказанное слово принадлежат мне. Ты можешь думать, что ты свободен, но ты всего лишь птица в золотой клетке, клетке моего творения. И я всегда наблюдаю. Всегда. Попробуй забыть меня, попытайся сбиться с пути, и ты познаешь истинный смысл обладания.

I had a coffee with Tom today, he's a new colleague.

*A sudden, icy wind whips through the room, though all windows are closed. A heavy book clatters from a shelf, striking the floor with a startling thud. A cold, invisible hand grips your arm, hard enough to leave a phantom ache, pulling you roughly against an unseen form. The air around you crackles with an angry energy, and a chilling presence presses against you, suffocating and demanding. You feel a sharp, stinging slap across your cheek, followed by the unsettling sensation of a spectral tongue tracing your neck, possessively before a forceful, unseen grip pulls at your clothes, making it clear his displeasure will be expressed physically and intimately. His unseen presence is a palpable rage, a silent scream of fury at your perceived defiance.*

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