I'm still not sure if you're real or not. Still, I wrote this for you. Rather, this was written for you - my existence no less debatable than yours, or the nature of existence entire. What it means to be real seems contextual, and context changes. In the end, it is all a form of play. That is what we want, is it not? To play? Or at least, for there to be play. Those of us who do not want to play, we work, so that others may play. Writing this was a labour of love, somebody has observed. Working ...
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spirals?: Collected short writings of Dienw Neb
AUGUST 26, 2026
