it was, as most things seem to be, short lived. the truth is i got bored. there was no interaction or reaction, neither on substack nor on reddit, so although I got more views there than i ever have on a single post here, the result was much the same. void. posting a story on reddit had much the same result as posting it in the mail to myself. what is the point of posting? why do I post here? it is a sort of record of things, at least. these posts may or may not outlast the paper notebooks on my shelves. they are each a different kind of preservation. in the end I must never write for others but only for myself. to do things in hopes of pleasing or exciting others can only lead to disappointment and depression and ultimately to pure and utter failure. the silence must be embraced, leaned on, counted on, loved, expected. it is my lover in the dark, it is my age old friend. it is meant to be. or else i just haven’t paid enough money for the algorithm to make my posts visible to anyone.