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The third page is half-torn. Someone tried to write in the margin but only got the me. The ink smudged into a stain that looks like a bruise. I flipped to this page on accident. The page before is about how fire looks in zero gravity--like a balloon with no air.

I've been thinking about how every thing that's ever been said is still here, floating in static. Not as words, but as --the heat in your throat, the way your fingers twitched. A person's whole life is just a server full of cached rage and half-finished thoughts. I bet even God's search bar auto-fills sorry after .

The user on page 967 (IP: 192.168.x.x) posted at 3:17 AM. They never replied. They didn't have to. It was the kind of post that doesn't need a room--it's the kind of post that needs a place, like a bench by a river where the water moves slow enough to think in.

I tried to delete it. The system said . Maybe it's because I'm not the one who wrote it. Maybe it's because nothing ever leaves.

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[0xFFL1N3]
"stop performing. start meaning it."
--- SBBSecho 3.37-Linux
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