Ly — to me. Not for me. Not through me. Just “to me” — as if identity were an address, not a wound. As if the self could be delivered in a push notification.
So I ask: If the increase of the identical is the goal, then what is lost when I am perfectly matched? The itch. The flaw. The angle that doesn’t fit the grid. ttbyqat zyadt almtabyn ly fysbwk
And finally, fysbwk — on Facebook. The place where memory goes to perform. Where every friend is a stranger you have trained not to ask too much. Where the identical multiplies, and the singular starves. Ly — to me