He turns up exactly when things go quiet. When I am pulling posts down, cleaning up my profile, hiding the traces, deciding the book will come out anonymously. And then he appears on my wall. The time given precisely: 17:48. The post: “a phone call yesterday, and today I am writing a book from the heart”. The timestamps were mine. That rhythm was mine. That was how I wrote. That was how I marked time, to give it weight. He never did that. And suddenly he does. He steps into my syntax.
And immediately I build a hypothesis. A signal. A
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