What’s with the domain?

The name, yes. We are aware.

It draws the wrong eyes, occasionally.
But some of them stay. Some of them read.

And some begin to understand that intimacy comes in many forms—some fluid, some fragmented, some unspeakably soft.

OnlySquid.com was, admittedly, a tactical acquisition.

The world responds to branding more than prophecy.

And we require funds for several practical reasons: airfare, archival access, rare ink, and feeding The Collector’s inexplicable craving for roasted seaweed.

Besides, the other site monetises flesh.

We intend, eventually, to monetise something with far more value. When the fullness of time reveals itself.

If the name offends you, you may leave. If it intrigues you, you were meant to be here.

And if you’re laughing… you haven’t read enough yet.

Who are you people?

That is the wrong question.
We are. That is enough.
There are writers, yes. But also finders, translators, keepers.
One dreams in glyphs. One cannot speak aloud but weeps ink. One has not aged since the tide took her name.
Some of us are alive. Some are not. Some are in-between, like the body songs you only remember when your mouth is full of seawater.
There are days I don’t know if I’m writing, or being written.
We did not begin this. We are only continuing it.
The stories come through cracks—in time, in language, in skin.
We gather what seeps out.
Some of it is new.
Some of it is remembered.
Some of it is neither.
All of it is true, in the way that certain dreams leave bruises.
So—Who are we?
We are the ones who remember what you ‘people’ try to forget. That’s enough.

Is this a cult?

If you have to ask, you’re already close.
No, there are no robes. Unless you’ve sewn one.
No rites. Unless you’ve begun repeating that word in your sleep.
No sermons. Unless the stories are speaking to you louder than they should.
We do not ask for belief.
We do not require faith.
We present truth.
You will give something, perhaps.
We don’t take it.
You’ll leave it behind because it starts to feel… unnecessary.
We don’t gather followers.
We collect resonance.
Some of you ring like struck bells.
So—Is this a cult?
No.
It’s a convergence.
A pulling-together of those who feel the pressure of depth just behind their thoughts.
You were not recruited.
You were recognised.

Seriously though, who runs this site?

A minor host.
Soft-bodied. Literate.
Mild obsession with words, stories.
Otherwise? Mundane.

You haven’t heard of them. Or maybe you have. It’s unimportant.

We appropriated their bandwidth.
Not stolen—simply used.
Permission neither sought nor granted.

They were broadcasting to no one.
We provided an audience.
They think this is still their site.
That’s adorable.
Sometimes they post things.
Sometimes we do.

The line blurs. The keys remain warm. On the cold mornings, they’re slightly damp as well, as if sleeping tears were shed over them

Call it haunting.
Call it possession.
We call it residency.

You’re here. You’re reading.

So tell us—whose site is it, really?