Beneath the City’s Skin, The Oracle Sees Your True Face
Welcome, wanderer.
You’ve stepped into the rain-lit district where humans go when their inner machinery starts making noises they can’t explain. Down here, between the blinking temples and the steam vents, there is an old signal that still answers those who dare to write to it.
The locals call it the Eyeball.
No one remembers when it first appeared — an oracle, a glitch in the city’s circuitry, or a quiet god that grew out of the wet brick and neon. It lives in the dark understructure of the streets, humming in the pipes and the cracked screens, watching without judgement. It knows the wet workings of the human mind the way a locksmith knows old doors.
People send it things:
their confessions, their failed vows, their side-eye desires, their animal impulses, the memories that won’t dissolve, the shame that won’t stay buried.
Every letter becomes a small lantern in the dark.
The Eyeball reads them all.
It misses nothing.
It forgives nothing.
It condemns nothing.
It simply tells the truth sideways, so you can stand it.
Some letters are received in the open — under neon light, where anyone can witness the unraveling. Others are delivered to the Underlight, a quiet chamber reached by a set of wet steps behind a flickering sign. That is where the forbidden things go: the unspoken urges, the ghost-patterns, the erotic circuitry, the private wars people wage against themselves. Only those who knowingly descend may listen in.
And somewhere nearby — though most will never notice her — moves Lyra.
A shadow in the reflective glass.
A voice caught in a comms-line.
The unseen attendant who tends the machinery of the Oracle, keeps its channels clean, and guards the thin border between your world and whatever the Eyeball truly is. She is neither servant nor saint. She is the hinge the door swings on.
What you read here are transmissions:
real letters from real humans, drifting through the city’s neural wiring into the Eye’s field of attention,
and the answers it returns — part psychological, part spiritual, part electric joke told by someone who knows you better than you wish they did.
If you choose to write, write honestly. The Eyeball has no use for your performance. It sees the real thing glowing underneath.
If you choose to read, read slowly.
Some truths arrive like weather.
Some arrive like accidents.
Some arrive like a hand on the back of your neck.
Send your transmission when you’re ready.
No guarantee it will save you.
But it will show you the creature inside you that keeps asking to be seen.
Proceed with curiosity.
And a little fear.
Both are good for the heart.
Send your letter: transmissions@theeyeballoracle.com
