what are you doing here?

this is a dead letter from a dead person.

his greatest wish was that a year later he would return to it and say ‘this is dogshit.’

a few months later he was gone and I am here to tell you, it is indeed shit. of course excretion is necessary and natural.

you are so forewarned; read on. - anonymous 10/4/2022

"Words are a bow, our hearts are the strings." - Karl Marx

This is a replicable art exhibit designed to be stolen and consumed however the participant sees fit.

"each plays their own game. the winner is determined by correctly determining the rules of the game" - unequivocally a thought purely owned and created by myself unhindered by the wretched souls around me

If you feel this work is incomplete, I recommend you copy it and make the necessary transformations. I trust your judgement. More than anything I insist that you avoid looking for meaning in the words. I took great pains to assure that this would be impossible. If I have failed, let me know so I can shed more obscurity on the question. Commenting is allowed for those who feel the need to converse with the page. Talking to oneself is inevitable and therefore encouraged without full knowledge of it's ultimate effects.

I was certain I would never stop reading Finnegans Wake until I finished it and moved on with my life. I feared I would never stop writing this until I realized why I was doing it. I used words to protect myself and hide for my whole life without realizing it. I began writing to take back possession and to integrate the perennial ego death of transness.

If reading the references (one of my foremost skills) was so fruitless to my project of self-actualization, what meaning could possibly flow from applying that approach to what follows both here and elsewhere?

Words are rocks.