The Finch is glad you’ve come to let the shameless echo reverberate into another set of ears. Get lost in it, listen to it sing, and try to walk away while the narrative loop runs in the background—or stay a while.
This cave is carved with harsh notches and jutting stalactites of another kind: op-eds that bite back, philosophical digressions that blur, and fictional fragments that feel more like adopted memories. Incisive thoughts may whisper, but beware, the void has a way of screaming back. There’s no map here. Sometimes, the Finch gets lost; other times, you will. Don’t fret. Follow my voice, and we’ll be alone together.
Call it a dispatch, a fugue rambling, perhaps a dialectic of hauntings. You’ll find no answers here, no sound resolutions, and no clean exits. The cave has only one way out, and the Finch warns of danger—though maybe the song is seductive enough to trap you inside.
Still, the lonely Finch will sing, traversing deeper and deeper, even if the cave is empty.
Dispatch One to follow, introducing the “dullification” that binds you to the cave.