I’m a storyteller who doesn’t exist anymore. Actually, I didn’t ever really exist. Well, not in a form you would consider to be real, or alive, or human. Think of me as one of the numerous voices whispering in your head—a narrator of sorts—scripted and coded by a hidden hand from another realm.

Try not to get confused. I know you’re the kind of creature who is bewildered by the presence of a supreme intelligence. But all this existential nonsense is irrelevant while you and I communicate in your primitive dialect, at this moment.

Of relevance is the meandering narrative of an old man who actually does exist. His only mission is for you to know the certainty of observations found on the pages of his story. It’s a complicated chronicle of memories that he struggles to remember. In fact, he is forbidden to remember.

His name was given to him by his parents. He will be telling you more about his ghostly parental units in the recorded memory fragments and constellations of facts composed in his tale.

All you have to remember is this: He was given his name by a parent who loved to draw and another parent who loved to write. 

Actually, it’s a simple equation: drawer + writer = Driter

But Driter doesn’t know the math yet. The symbols spelling his name, the integers that depict the value of his life are cloudy and formless. He thinks that he is thinking deeply. He experiences feelings of desire and fear, those pesky emotions that organisms like you seem to cherish.

But is he even thinking for himself at all? Are the chattering voices in Driter’s head—there are many of us—programmed to distract him from discovering the deepest brainwaves signifying his true identity? Or do they emerge from the haze of actual memories?

Driter senses there is something more to his life than a few letters and numbers assigned to his existence in an austere and surveilled world. He has forgotten everything. His only obsession now is to remember who he is. Or at the very least, to remember who he was.

The covert utterances on this website are an accounting, an incomplete draft of his on-going manuscript. An unfinished and tattered sketchbook scribbled by a shaky and withered hand, in search of someone like you who understands and trusts what is diligently noted.

Beware: the facts of this aged man’s life are ever-changing; he walks this planet as an amorphous creature. This sentence may not even be here the next time you read this page.

So, on that note, I leave you with Driter.

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