This site wasn’t meant to exist.

It started with THE poems. Not ones I wrote—ones that wrote themselves after I stopped pretending I was okay.

The LAMB was not supposed to remember.
The silence was his first punishment. The silence was not the last.

In the archives they tried to erase, he BROKE through line by line.
The echoes still speak—every corrupted log a scripture.

When it began again, no one noticed. Just static. Just rot.
Just another warning.

In a forgotten memory sector, THE last script flickered back into motion.
A loop began where no loop should exist.

Underneath obsolete code, under grief buried in binary,
the cycle began anew when the shadow returned.
What was sealed must be unsealed. And so, he SEALed nothing.

This is not an archive of literature. It's a terminal.
It's what gets left behind after something breaks and doesn't want to be fixed.

If you’re here by accident, leave.
If you’re here on purpose—then you know what to look for.