In my mind, Mr. Gloom is an ideal being. He never demands to be fed, he doesn’t scream, and he doesn’t judge. He simply exists, never refusing me anything that wouldn’t be contrary to his nature. I always know what kind of mood I’ll find him in. Gloomy. This gloominess seems to be the only constant island in my life right now.
With each passing day, we understand each other better. I can already see when he’s getting hungry. I consider it my duty to provide him with food then. After all, I am taking care of him. At least in a sense. Mr. Gloom isn’t picky—he seems satisfied with whatever I bring him. Lovely creature.
However, his greatest, most absolute trait is this: he does not excrete.
This remains an unexplained mystery to me. No matter what I put into his mouth, nothing ever comes out of him. Unlike every other living being in this world. Even plants excrete, except their farts are a blessing to us. They fart oxygen. I don’t know if Mr. Gloom emits any gases—at least nothing perceptible. To me, he is as perfect as plants. Perhaps even more so.
Establishing Mr. Gloom’s diet wasn’t difficult. In fact, it happened by pure chance.
The Möbius Strip of Human Residue: Frame One, 20cm, Mixed Media, 2026