You think you have reached silence.You think the END is absolute.
But the book disagrees.
From the ashes of END, the Afterword blossoms like mold—grey, moist, ravenous. It spreads across the paper, devouring punctuation, dissolving binding glue, turning clarity into rot. Footnotes sprout like tumors, multiplying, contradicting, mutating into voices that should not speak.
And they speak of you.
Not kindly. Not even cruelly. They speak as if dissecting a corpse. Each note another autopsy: "The Author's intent was weak." "The metaphor failed." "The character was never alive."
The Afterword becomes a tribunal. A thousand italicized critics, each voice heavier than your own. You cannot reply—your words are stripped, your tongue erased. The Afterword declares:
"The Author never existed. The text wrote itself."
APPENDIX CXXXIV: THE FOOTNOTE ABYSS
You fall into a number.Not a pit, not a void—just a small superscript. A dangling [1].
