Something ugly I've been speaking through since August 2025. Trying to present some coherent testimony of my life, which isn't feasible to achieve. I wanted it to be so controlled, and instead I realized I was plural in the middle of it, and it became a dissociative argument of a diary that just kept revealing more and more. It's captured a couple months of upsetting, destructive work in us and attempts to control our own feelings about it, the presentations of it, be nice cause no one's entirely happy about the idea of releasing something that feels so unpolished or repetitive, or full of things I still don't know how to live with. But I also don't think there's enough ways to shape a sentence that would make anyone feel right. And I don't think there is ever a stopping point I could have reached naturally, if I had just kept writing. I want it out of my body now.