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. 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. ttbyqat zyadt almtabyn ly fysbwk
And in that increase, I am not multiplied. I am diluted. And finally, fysbwk — on Facebook
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. Where the identical multiplies, and the singular starves
Zyadt — increase. But increase of what? Of faces that resemble mine in posture but not in pulse. Of voices that speak in memes and never stutter. An increase of the same — the terrifying algebra of the algorithm: More of what already looks like me, until I disappear into the crowd of my own reflections.