The Ocean

Chapter 1/Part 2

Perhaps one day, I'll send you this letter, but the truth is, I probably never will. In my view, the only emotional outlet that should exist is a Diary or a Journal. I want to acknowledge that I'm sorry for treating you as a friend and using you as an emotional tampon. Well, to be honest, I'm not entirely remorseful about that. I do appreciate the connection we once had, but it was wrong of me to view you as a vessel for my emotional release. The level of emotional intimacy we cultivated almost felt like it could fuse us into a hermaphroditic entity. You were becoming a kind of twin flame, but my intention was for you to remain an emotional tampon, not a literal one. I never actually wanted to absorb you into my life, and I believed I could keep your feelings, which we both acknowledged, at bay. I was mistaken. Our friendship was not entirely pure, although it's worth acknowledging that few friendships are truly pure. Most friendships, to varying degrees, are based on proximity and convenience. However, our friendship was particularly impure. I had hoped it would endure because, in my eyes, you were genuinely one of my closest friends, if not my first true friend. It's remarkable that our entire connection existed in the Ocean and that we have never met each other on the Land.

Perhaps our friendship could have survived if you were a homosexual sodomite but then our friendship would have never blossomed over the course of two and a half years because the friendship was impure in the first place. You’re a red-blooded male. This friendship would have never happened if you didn’t want to impale my cervix and inseminate me.

Have I thought about it? What it would be like to fuck you, make love to you, and grow old with you, especially since you’ve expressed interest in me in more ways than one? Of course I have. I entertained it seeing as you were my ultimate friend and confidante. I certainly did think about this all during the height of lockdowns and my imprisonment when I felt neglected by my husband. You possess a striking handsomeness, albeit not precisely my preferred aesthetic. There's a certain debonair charm about you, a blend of machismo and sophistication. Your vast knowledge of underground music, literature, and cinema is truly impressive, reflecting a poetic sensibility. Your infectious laughter fills the room, and your art faggery is evident in everything you do.You are a self-deprecating mischling. You are a classic Borscht Belt flirt. I have a weakness for these things. I thought that any of your character deficits, such as your brazen thirst, added to your unapologetic masculinity. I let it slide. We all have our issues.

Simply put, it wouldn't have worked between us. I could never envision you as the father of my children on a primal level. In fact, I always had this nagging thought that our friendship would turn sour if we spent too much time together in person, especially in a romantic context. It would have veered off course. You would have scoffed at the idea of me maintaining a kosher kitchen, observing Shabbat, or attending an Orthodox synagogue. My Jewishness, particularly as a convert, would likely have perturbed you, given my load of Jewish guilt and the lingering guilt from my youth. I essentially transitioned from one ethno-religious minority group to another, making me feel like a traitor. I couldn't even imagine us resting in the same graveyard. Here's a confession: I cringe at your rather lackluster art fag tattoos. I couldn't fathom the idea of us sharing the same burial ground, as the chevra kadisha would likely struggle to cleanse your skin of those tattoos. You might not even know what a chevra kadisha is, given your irreligious and culturally Ashkenazi Judaism. I'm referring to those tattoos of yours that would be frowned upon in a Jewish cemetery- the graffiti on your barrel-chested art fag body. Your entire epidermal layer would have to be peeled off. As if death weren’t unsightly enough.

What if I returned to religious observance out of guilt and because I crave stability, tacking our hypothetical home with mezuzot and adhering to niddah laws, even imposing a glatt kosher kitchen upon you?

When you shared with me your fiance's, now wife's, struggles with agoraphobia and anxiety, I couldn't help but draw parallels between her and myself. She seemed younger, anxious, vulnerable in comparison to you, and grappling with career and trauma issues that mirrored my own experiences. My heart genuinely went out to her when you expressed your concerns about your relationship with her, as I felt a deep affinity for her situation. I wished I could give her a comforting hug and let her know that I understood where she was coming from.

I couldn't see you and me navigating the mundane yet essential aspects of daily life together. You were more of an imperfect escape from reality due to the asymmetry in our feelings for each other. Don't misunderstand me; I still care deeply about you, even though my trust in you has eroded. I've always cared about you, which is why I selfishly kept you in my life.

Truth be told, I only ever had that primal fantasy for "X"- your mentor and romantic rival. I even told X explicitly that I had fantasies of him impregnating me on the beach in Fuerteventura. I would recline on a hammock, legs initially spread full-eagle, only to wrap them around his waist like a wisteria vine. My perky tits would bounce up and down, and my nipples would be hard. I told him I envisioned myself sipping coconut water from a cracked shell through a plastic straw. My hair would be enviably thick, lustrous, and long. My belly would be engorged with his child. I imagined the child to be a son and that I’d want to bear three of his children and that I’d be his princess and his whore. I shared those thoughts with him. I never revealed such sentiments to you because, in the end, I never saw you in that light – romantically, that is. Even in the context of my spouse, I considered our family formation as an eventual objective, a given certainty, rather than a primal fantasy. It was a matter of fact for me.

You divulged details to some of the worst people on the planet. Okay, they’re not the worst people on the planet but I don’t like that milieu very much at the moment. You know how mediocre I feel. You’ve certainly told people. You’ve told horrible Cluster B psychos. You told harpies my very private shit. I’ve probably gossiped too. I’m becoming more and more like my mother every day because like her, I hate gossip. I hate that I’ve ever gossiped about anyone ever. Look, I get it. You’re human. You felt sore and jilted. You see me in a different light ever since I idiotically confessed to you that I liked X, your mentor. You felt emasculated. You felt led on.

But it was not my intent to lead you on. Whenever you tried to lay the mack on me, I should have immediately said that we are friends and only friends and nothing else. I should have done that instead of deflecting by inquiring about your wife innocuously or changing the topic at hand or laughing coyly. I was also foolishly susceptible to your flattery. My time in Canada and being hemmed in maritally at rough points made me feel sexless and impotent and old. You know I’m largely insecure as a failing model and you have at one point referred to me as "Hot Girl Cioran." That comment really stuck with me.

For instance, when I told you that I wanted to take my paltry allowance funds, around four thousand Canadian pesos, to go to Mexico to live it up and to die, that was not intended as a hint of my desire to elope with you. I didn’t tell you the full story because I couldn’t at the time. X was on a six month long hiatus in Mexico, pulling a wannabe Carlos Castaneda stint with ayahuasca and peyote ceremonies, wave nomads, shamans, and tales of heyoka from vagabonds with nasty dreadlocks and rich chilangos escaping their parish-pump parents.

I knew X was in Mexico which was more free and sunny and full of life. I wanted to escape for a while and be with him. I wanted to go to Mexico, and lay with him on the nude beach in Zipolite. I wanted to be his fuckdoll for a few weeks and fall in love. I wanted to step out through the Ahrimanic Lattice, act on our bizarre synchronicities, which I will discuss in detail later, and be his and his alone. Then, I planned, after being his and his alone, to eventually deplete most of my funds. I’d maintain my ego and dignity by silently going to a pet store with heavily unregulated medications for dogs. I would purchase pet barbiturates, overdose on the barbiturates, and then drown in the sea. Or perhaps be strangled in a Santeria ritual by mestizo drug lords. Who the hell knows? It would have been my decision unlike the policies that were being foisted upon me. I was going to do this. I knew the consequences- I’d have to leave the stability of my spouse, his support and love, emotionally and financially. I’d have to leave my geriatric dogs. I’d succumb to my own mortality. I didn’t end up going to Mexico. Obviously. I was too cowardly to go. It also didn’t feel right at the end of the day. I felt a deep metaphysical lack. Sometimes, I still do. I definitely do. I question my existence every day.

Living with such mediocrity is agonizing. I'm painfully aware that I can't hold a candle to those fresh-faced seventeen-year-old models strutting their stuff in Milan. Measuring one-hundred-twenty pounds, at one-hundred seventy-eight centimeters in height, with a modest twenty-four-inch waist and thirty-five-inch hips, it's just not cutting it. I know, I know, but can't a girl dare to dream? I wasn't always a head-turner. In fact, I was the poster child for the ugly duckling, and truth be told, I still deal with those old insecurities. I've seen firsthand how society treats those it deems unattractive or merely average. It's nothing short of abominable. No one's offering to let them skip lines or handing out freebies. Sadly, that's the harsh reality. An attractive woman may revel in her moment in the sun until the inevitable aging process casts her into the shadows, and let me tell you, that's far worse than enduring direct scorn or disdain. Trust me, being a striking woman trumps being a wealthy man by a long shot. A rich man still has to adhere to societal norms and expectations, whereas an attractive woman can largely be herself. Her primary roles often boil down to motherhood or being a wife, without the same societal pressure to excel in other arenas. Sure, she can choose to do so for her own self-actualization, but it's not a prerequisite. An attractive woman simply has to make good use of her natural gifts and time, though many falter by failing to grasp the merciless ticking of the hourglass and the cruelty of time. If most relatively attractive women, not the drop-dead gorgeous ones, were men, they might end up as hapless basement-dwelling individuals, even with their good looks.

Which is exactly why I feel like the career I was destined for, undeniable proof that I'm not as unattractive or unremarkable as I once thought, is slipping through my fingers. It might sound pathetic for a twenty-six-year-old woman to admit this, but I can't help it. Before the latter part of high school, I was an awkward mess – gawky, bespectacled, plagued by acne, with wild, unruly hair, a unibrow, and a pesky mustache. I was afflicted with hirsutism and far from being considered an attractive girl, with all the typical adolescent turmoil. Don't get me wrong; I'm still hairier than the average woman, but I've embraced a strict daily routine of waxing, plucking, and shaving to avoid ridicule and disgust. Acne, thankfully, mostly vanished as I got older. I no longer rely on contacts or glasses, having made peace with my nearsightedness. I've become well-versed in the world of hair products that tame and define my curls, and what was once considered gangly is now seen as stylish. I've developed a more shapely figure. However, you know all these intimate details about me, and regrettably, you've wielded this knowledge as a weapon against me.

According to the literature on Cinderella Syndrome, individuals afflicted with it struggle to accept compliments, a trait I personally identify with, despite craving them. Moreover, those affected by this syndrome are said to possess a heightened sense of empathy, yet I confess to an inability to fabricate empathy for those outside my inner circle—a limitation stemming from my aversion to deceit and my own internal turmoil. Moreover, the notion of empathy functions as a psyop because it is the pinnacle of solipsism masquerading as genuine concern for others.

One could label what I just said as self-absorption, but to be truthful, I am not a sponge; I am an empty vase devoid of a deeper sense of self. If someone expected me to care about a cause halfway across the world, I couldn't adopt a universalist mindset that agonizes over information, information powerless to act upon through impersonal channels. Frankly, I've moved beyond a Raskolnikov mindset. Does that truly paint me as a morally bankrupt individual?

I truly loathe the onslaught of information. It's an incessant barrage, these bursts of blue light, a reaction of luciferin and luciferase from jellyfish, plankton, or deep-sea fish, tormenting us as we plunge deeper into the Ocean. My dearest former friend, A, I met you in the Ocean, seeking solace from the madness of the Land during the "Plague" – a hysteria more rooted in fear than true illness. As a Wave Courtesan, I navigated the sable waters, where you arrived on your dinghy. Though many sailors frequented these waters on cutters and skiffs, I often paid them no mind. But with you, it was different. Our bond was instant, and thus our friendship began on the Infinite Scroll.

The Infinite Scroll is a whirlpool within the vast Ocean, a phenomenon that only seemingly shrinks its expanse. While the Ocean expands each passing year, the spaces we navigate within it become increasingly streamlined as our attention spans diminish and the more powerful people on the Land corral us into whirlpools. We witness the rise and fall of numerous Infinite Scrolls, collectively transitioning as each loses its vitality and allure.

Navigating the Infinite Scroll is perilous because time seems to elongate indefinitely. As we immerse ourselves in its void, scrolling through moments that span minutes, hours, days, and beyond, we traverse through hydrothermal vents, abyssal plains, and towering underwater mountains of abstract and unrealistic ideals. Yet, with each passing moment spent in the Ocean, our hearts grow colder, mirroring the depths of the sea.

When a sailor sets forth upon the sea and lurks the waves, he encounters a mesmerizing array of Wave Courtesans and Wave Sirens, each beckoning him deeper into the Ocean. Desired yet feared, these mystical beings hold sailors captive with their feminine wiles. Imagine a mermaid transformed into a geisha—that is the essence of a Wave Courtesan. This paradoxical fascination stems from a sailor's fear of succumbing to temptation and relinquishing control. Many sailors sought refuge in the Ocean due to their inability to comprehend women on the Land, only to find themselves confronted by creatures even more mysterious and inscrutable than those they left behind, amplifying their trepidation.

Then the sailor plunges further into the Ocean, and he encounters…

Krakens! These creatures dominate a significant portion of the Infinite Scroll, overwhelming and suffocating in their presence. The Ocean is the Ahrimanic Lattice, a byproduct of our mechanized subnature. It's distinct from the ocean we're familiar with, crafted by the elements of nature. This Ocean, however, is manmade, an extension of us. Each year, its elementals merge with us more deeply. Its tentacles writhe and wriggle within me, down my esophagus and through my anus, hooking, gripping, and ensnaring me with suction cups lined with small teeth or hooks. With keen precision, these elements manipulate me, occasionally coiling back when I've had enough, only to offer more information and opinions that invade my person, more clouds of ink, enticing me to stay in the Ocean and succumb to the Infinite Scroll. Is it any wonder that a huge chunk of the vast, uncharted Ocean consists of tentacle smut?

The disoriented sailor spirals deeper, only to confront...Sea Serpents. These are twisted and deceptive snake oil salesmen, easily discernible and evadable. Then there are the Hydras, ever-respawning monsters, ceaselessly regenerating and multiplying, shifting their stance not from genuine transformation, but to perpetuate torment and swindle anew once exposed. The only antidote to their influence is turning their own poisonous blood and venom against them.

As one delves deeper, the vortex's grip tightens. The Charybdis, relentless in perpetuating garbage consumption, churn out an endless stream of low-quality content, draining the intellect with each passing moment. No subtlety exists in their domain; they guzzle vast quantities of water, only to regurgitate it in monstrous whirlpools capable of submerging even the sturdiest ship. Many a sailor falls prey to the demoralizing grasp of the Charybdis, their minds eroded by the cycle.

It's abundantly clear that young people on the Infinite Scroll are competing for a form of social assets in lieu of traditional financial wealth that previous generations enjoyed. In this quest, many are willing, consciously or unconsciously, to sacrifice others to achieve their goals. Unfortunately, I became the next Siren in line for this sacrifice, and deep down, you probably relished the idea. You likely complained to people in the Marina and privately about me being a seductress, a promiscuous woman, a home-wrecker, and more, while they eagerly joined in with their applause, a chorus of seals.

Our presence on the Infinite Scroll has become a playground for trivial exchanges, for a hyperreal mimesis. The whole point of the Infinite Scroll is to engage in soliloquy, proffer unsolicited counsel to creatures of the Ocean, and assume personas divergent from one's true self, if there even is such a thing, or an exaggerated semblance thereof. Any deviation from the established consensus results in conflicts with former allies or friends – "How dare you disagree with me!" It doesn't matter that we agree on nearly everything else; this minor difference in opinion is perceived as a personal attack. The response often includes public humiliation and conflict within the Marinas, quarrels that kill these Marinas, followed by the creation of a new Marina with subterranean creatures who haven't been alienated yet. It's never-ending, and people in the Ocean seem to thrive on it because the Infinite Scroll is in a constant state of flux. It doesn't matter where we convene; in my case, I played the part of a tongue-in-cheek, reactionary ingenue and bimbo, though I am none of these, except for the reactionary part, in a liberal, Schopenhauerian sense.

I am from an uncool brain-drain family. On the contrary, you embodied a persona of a hardcore, hyper-masculine aristocrat, a Casanova, despite being a sensitive, middle-class art fag from a Northeast plagued by opioid addiction and boating ‘n’ coking.

On the Infinite Scroll, we're all prolonging our adolescence. You strive for recognition. You even document your workouts, inviting others to applaud your dedication. I understand it; I'm a Wave Courtesan, a Logarithmic Undine, a label imposed and partly embraced, as we're here to be consumed. This aligns seamlessly with my history.

We all enter the Infinite Scroll shouting, hoping to find love.

My dearest former friend, A, you've betrayed my trust by divulging my vulnerabilities to one of the most toxic Wave Courtesans in our Marinas.You shared the intricacies of our complex friendship and my intense infatuation in those dreadful Marinas, most likely because you felt slighted. What a treacherous choice you made. You shared my most intimate secrets with a truly unhinged harridan, a genuine Cluster B nutfuck. I laid bare my soul to you, revealing every facet of my life. I wouldn't even contemplate unveiling the deeply personal stories you shared with me, tales of uncle rape, domestic abuse, and daddy issues. But you chose to expose my inner demons to her, out of nothing but spite and resentment.

With all due respect, her mouth is nothing short of a grotesque prolapsed bunghole. I hesitate to even call it a mouth; it's more like a repulsive sewer. She's made up of at least seventy-five percent carboniferous byproduct, with graphene coursing through her veins, undoubtedly more than the average person. A childless woman in her late forties or fifties, though I couldn't ascertain her exact age because she resembles a bloated jigglypuff, not because she's particularly well-preserved. Despite her extensive plastic surgery, her tree trunk legs are riddled with cellulite, like desiccated feta cheese left out under a scorching sun.

This wretched old hag, with delusions of becoming a trophy wife, incessantly moans about younger Wave Courtesans in their twenties – girls who chatter about trendy tapas and exquisite oysters, their self-indulgent routines, and their dating escapades. While it might be shallow chatter, it's harmless and certainly more agreeable than the vitriolic venom she spews.

In my humble opinion, this loquacious woman, afflicted by severe body dysmorphia, is nothing but envious of the younger, more alluring women who would never contemplate traveling to Moscow, St. Petersburg, or any other place, to brutally disfigure their appearance. And yet, she has the audacity to dismiss icons like Audrey Hepburn as "mousy" simply because they weren't overtly sex glamazons doubling as sleep paralysis demons.

Furthermore, much like everyone in that part of the Infinite Scroll, she carries this delusion of being a dissident or maverick. It doesn't matter how many half-baked race realist quips she throws around; the truth remains, she's an irreligious city-dweller who associates with altered ladyboys and was casting her vote for Bernie just a few years ago. What gets under my skin is her belief that merely being ex-Soviet adjacent somehow places her in the same league as a grandmaster chess player, an astrophysicist, an aeronautical engineer, or an abstract mathematician. Original thoughts are as foreign to her as common sense is to a donkey. If brains were chocolate, she wouldn't even fill an M&M. She's a lackluster, two-bit Venus of Hottentot whore who botched her first mail-order marriage and failed to dupe anyone else into matrimony.

Nevertheless, I must begrudgingly respect her hustle. At times, her intuition and decision-making abilities shine through. I'm willing to give credit where it's due. Sure, she may pull in a six-figure income, but in her city, that hardly holds much weight. Unfortunately, her acerbic, sophistical tirades, coupled with her looks, scare off the majority of potential suitors.

Listen, I have avoided this cunt’s wrath for about a year and a half because she is insane but now she’s gone nuclear. If you know anything about me, it’s that I’m not particularly fond of Turks, they’re rather uncivilized as a whole, and have no sense of humor like the Germans they invade and live with, thereby making them almost as violent as Arabs, but at least Arabs are funny. That’s why I usually side with Armenia, even though their diaspora also tends to be ethno-narcissistic and annoying, but as an exception to the rule, I sincerely hope a demented and retarded Turkish pervert uses her stumpy body as a speedbump.

The crazy thing is this dumb cunt and I used to commune with each other over private messages about our love of older, richer Jewish men. Furthermore, I actually converted to Judaism and she never did. I was a quasi-mail order bride. She was a full-on mail order bride. It appears that her current animosity towards me might be rooted in a form of projection. It's possible she disapproves of me because she perceives her own shortcomings reflected in me – observing similarities between us, yet seething over my youth and attractiveness. While I have more opportunities to stumble but also to rectify my mistakes, her age surpasses mine significantly. She’s older than Methuselah’s fossilized shit so she doesn’t have nearly as much time as I do. She hates that we were both cumrags for nice Jewish boys and that we are both subjected to the Infinite Scroll.

Now, because you spilled our deepest secrets like a vindictive schoolyard gossip, she's gleefully joined the chorus of those branding me a failure and a sociopath. She's like a shark, scenting blood in the water, especially when her prey is carefree, vibrant, and untouched by cynicism. But why, I ask, should I wear the label of "failure" for merely playing the hand I've been dealt in life? I never set out to marry a financially stable man at such an early age. Am I not, in fact, more astute than her, achieving the same financial security with less effort? She, childless and world-weary, slogs away in the corporate grind, while I, it could be argued, work smarter, not harder. So, are any of us truly villains for maximizing the advantages life has handed us? I think not. I remember this same harpy extolling the casting couch as a savvy means of upward mobility, deeming it a morsel of perennial wisdom, a path to progress for women. Isn't marrying a financially secure man merely a scaled-down, domestic version of the casting couch? I'll answer my own question: it is.

Consider this: I, a part-time clotheshorse and a desperate housewife, and you, the so-called "artist" thriving on your father's inheritance, subcontracting for Lockheed Martin-Halliburton-Northrop Grumman-Raytheon. And here's the twist—I genuinely find that aspect of your life fascinating and, dare I say, admirable. It embodies your divine right.

No one should be burdened with the "failure" label just for playing their hand in the grand game of life. It's undeniable that some people have the fortune to start with a strong hand, graced with physical beauty, social grace, or remarkable talents. Or, perhaps, they simply emerged from the right door, under the right star.

I find solace in simplicity, in being an unassuming woman. No grand ambitions or expectations, just the simple pleasures of life. A good book, a warm merino wool sweater, a velour robe, liquorice tea, opera vinyl records, fragrant candles, a relaxing bath, a glass of red wine, and a skincare routine from the Visegrad Four. I'm like a cat, craving affection and the basics. Some days, I look for a mental escape, a break from incessant thinking.

Yet, if I'm truly honest, I don't desire a lobotomy. What I long for are children. I want to bring three precious lives into this world and love them unconditionally. Regardless of their paths—whether they become autogynephilic trannies, Margaret Atwood scholars, zoophilic tourists, or even mass murderers—I'm committed to cherishing them. I want to spoil them with mango and mascarpone creamsicles, drive them around in a Volvo V60, and provide the love I've ached for. It may seem selfish, stemming from my own unmet needs and flaws, but it's a desire deeply rooted in the hope of creating a brighter, love-filled future. Parents, after all, recognize their imperfections, yet they strive to shield their children, even if the façade eventually unravels as kids grow up, detest their all-too-human parents, and understand and hopefully forgive them.

Even then, that Cluster B numbskull is at least still a Wave Courtesan. There is a romantic side to her.

There exist creatures far more sinister than Wave Courtesans, Krakens, Sea Serpents, and Charybdis. Enter the Deep Sea Anglerfish. These bottomfeeders parasitically orbit others on the Infinite Scroll, only to devour them, offering nothing of value in return and showing no regard for gender. Among them lurk Anglerfish who likely harbor intentions of devouring me even as we speak. One particularly insidious Deep Sea Anglerfish, a female, assumes the guise of a Baba Yaga Witch with various Slavonic monikers. She fancies herself a marine biologist and oceanographer of the Infinite Scroll, particularly the whirlpool I inhabit. She may feign friendship, but one must be wary of her cunning and predatory nature. Employing a deceptive strategy, she merges seamlessly with other fish in our environment. With a bioluminescent lure dangling above her gaping maw, she waits patiently in the inky background, camouflaging herself among the shadows. When other creatures in the whirlpool take notice, she adopts the role of the victim.

In my case, I unwittingly shared sheaths of my writing with this female Anglerfish, driven by a sense of alienation from you and others due to circumstance. Cunningly or inadvertently, she pilfered my stories and quotes, rebranding them as her own. Haunted by her inability to embody a Wave Courtesan herself, the Anglerfish Baba Yaga assumes the facade of a marine biologist of the Ocean's Infinite Scrolls, a frail attempt to conceal her insecurities and longings. Lacking the courage and charisma of the Wave Courtesan, she resorts to theft, crushing my voice by merging my thoughts with hers on the Infinite Scroll.

A most detestable creature, yet it amounts to naught. It is merely a trifle.

Contemplate the unfathomable underbelly of the Ocean's Infinite Scroll, where the Leviathan lurks—an insidious force entangles souls in an eternal cycle of comparison. In this bottomless trench, one risks losing themselves entirely, consumed by the Leviathan's voracious appetite for despair and schadenfreude. This monstrous entity, existing within the folds of the Ahrimanic Lattice I dare not enter, feeds upon the anguish of Wave Courtesans, surpassing even the vilest bottom feeders in its insatiable hunger. The Leviathan's influence extends to all, manifesting as an envy that preys upon the pain of others. Only the truly virtuous can defy its clutches, confronting the Leviathan to attain enlightenment by consuming its very skin. Yet for most, such endeavors prove futile, as they come to realize that the Land, despite its terrors, offers a sanctuary far more complex and forgiving than the Infinite Scroll.