STRANGERS ON THE INTERNET AREN'T YOUR FRIENDS
THE REPORTS OF MY MADNESS ARE GREATLY EXAGGERATED
Maybe I deserve to be made fun of for what I’ve done. What am I supposed to say? I fucking stood on a throne made of numbers and declared myself king! My words as important as the sun’s! I told you lies I was told by myself. I spoke to an audience as if you were my personal friends, but this was no void to scream in.The kingdom of ones and zeroes is a cave that echoes forever. Words I said once traveled as if spoken a million times over. My joy, my fears, and of course my mistakes amplified by the cave. I can say a million times that this was meant to be my private kingdom, but that’s not how the cave works. Even as I burn my castle to the ground in an attempt at any form of salvation or penance echoes of me appear in the cave. Pieces trapped in a tortured state.
How can anyone find safety in a world filled with cameras?
The shattering of the self into reflections no longer understood. This is the true nature of echoes of the self. For most, these echoes only exist within the minds of those you have met, but in a digital kingdom, your echoes live on forever. Shattered glass can never be put back together again.
It’s best to treat them as their own separate mirrors.
It’s best to treat them as their own separate mirrors.
REMOVE WHAT YOU REMEMBER
I did not think about what echoes I was creating. I don’t think most people do. Most echoes will bounce off the walls and escape the cave unnoticed, unmentioned, untouched. But when it hits just the right angle, it shoots deeper into the cave, becoming a voice louder than you could have ever made. I need you to forget me, but I have nothing to offer you in return for your mercy except for my services. How do I explain that I have changed?COULD YOU LEARN TO TRUST AGAIN
When you order from this site, I’m going to ask you for your name and your address. Unlike other forms of mail, snail mail is only so fast because of these details. But, these details put the mailman in a position of power.He knows where you live. He knows your name. He holds in his bag every secret you have, and every memory you will have in the future. He could hurt you. When you hand a letter to the mailman, an echo is formed, and you must trust that this echo is given only to the correct hands. To be stored and loved.
Could you trust me, your local mailman with this task?
I won’t fuck it up this time. I swear.
