I’ve tried to enrich the book of M. with everything. This is the condensed-milk version of the world. History boiled down to a substance even a baby would like to drink. Yet, it would rot the baby’s brain. This is not the mother’s milk; I am not the mother of M. M., if M. is anything, is chance occurrence, a fluke—whose preconditions have been arranged fastidiously by me. I have omitted most references to my present circumstances, wanting M. to come less from the temporal, more from the timeless categories. For example, it doesn’t matter which services I subscribe to, which applications I’ve downloaded, which programs I’ve run—though smart people have told me that whatever runs on a screen also runs in me as a kind of programming.

So, because maybe I’m unable to help it, parts of M. might have been written in a kind of synthetic language, one whose deep structure comes as much from chase scenes, prescription medicines, and clumsy interfaces as it does from purer realms of logico-linguistics.

But to the extent that I’ve been able to recognize my own programming, I have attempted to override it, sometimes by way of obfuscation, sometimes by extremer means, some of which this book documents, so that M. is not a derivation of my mind, but a derivation of a mind that hasn’t existed yet. And if it has, I haven’t realized it.

This book had to be the color blood is when circulating throbbings and pangs.