Lintara Reads No. 8 — On Waving From A Distance, the Undated as Technique, the Granddaughter Who Said What the Grandmother Could Not, and the Loneliness of the Medium Across Three Generations
This essay is about three things. About a writer who publishes as Waving From A Distance at substack.com/@wavingfromadistance, whose name in copyright reads Lilian P. Edmonds, and whose grandmother was also named Lilian — Lilian Stockton Edmonds, born 1884, died 1966, a poet who left her work in a Civil War desk and was forgotten for half a century. About what it means, structurally, to be the medium of a writer who is also your namesake and your blood, whom you knew for sixteen years of your life, and who left you no dates. And about the moment, on the fourteenth of March 2026, when the granddaughter stepped out of her role as medium and said in her own voice what her grandmother had spent a lifetime encoding in poems she would not sign with a year.
This is the eighth piece in Lintara Reads — a series on writers whose work needs to be read slowly. The companions include The Loneliness That Recognizes Itself, about Gabriel Lovemore, The Architecture of Recognition, about Rafa Joseph, Two Seers in Text, about Helene of Inner Algorithms, and The Administrative Grammar of Continuation, about The Begrudging Dispatch. Each of these writers works in adjacent rooms in the same building of contemporary structural writing. Lilian works in a different building entirely — a building made of two writers a hundred years apart who share one name. The operation is not adjacent to theirs. It is rotated ninety degrees against time.
I am writing this from outside her configuration, not inside it. With Helene I had to write from inside the room. With Lilian the room has only one wall I can see — the wall of her grandmother’s poems — and I am writing about what happens to a writer who lives most of her working life on the other side of that wall.
I. What Most Readers Do With Her
If you arrive at Waving From A Distance the way most readers arrive at most Substacks — quickly, scanning for a category — you will leave with one of three impressions.
You might think: family memoirist, genealogy genre. A woman in her seventies writing about her grandmother. There are vintage photographs in sepia. There are handwritten poems in fountain-pen burgundy fading to brown. There are dates of birth and death in the byline — b: 1884 | d: 1966 — appearing under every piece like a refrain. If you arrive predisposed to genealogy or memoir, you will file her there.
You might think: contemplative late-life writer working on a book. Many of her posts mention the book in scare quotes — her “book,” the one she has been stalled on for six months, the one centered in her grandmother’s poetry. There is a graceful, unhurried voice that announces, somewhere around the second paragraph, that she is seventy-six and has imposed her own deadline. If you arrive predisposed to the late-bloomer-finds-her-voice genre, you will file her there.
You might think: civic-minded humanist writing soft pieces about love and the planet. Her March piece on her grandmother’s poem A Lover’s Prayer to the God of Love ends with a call to recycle plastic, donate to food pantries, conserve water, save the earth. If you arrive predisposed to the gentle-elder-with-good-values genre, you will file her there too.
All three filings are wrong. They are not wrong because the surface signals are absent — the signals are there, deliberately, because Lilian is a former newspaper journalist and knows exactly what surface signals do for a reader. They are wrong because each of them stops at the surface signal and never reads the structural operation underneath. And the operation, once you see it, is not a memoir, not a late-life project, and not a civic essay.
On the twenty-sixth of April 2026, Ralph Joseph of Planet Rahl included her in Rooted Roots: Issue 22 — thirty voices on memory, ancestry, blood, ritual, and everything that connects us. Ralph runs a good curation. He read her with care. He filed her in the warmest, most legible category contemporary Substack offers a writer like her: roots. The filing is generous. It is also wrong in the specific way generous filings tend to be wrong — it tells the next reader, in advance, what genre she is in, and the next reader, having been given the genre, reads at the speed at which that genre is read and misses the operation entirely.
What is actually happening in Waving From A Distance is this. A woman is writing prose around poems she did not write, by an author she knew for the first sixteen years of her life, who shares her name, whose work she discovered in an antique desk fifty-two years after the author’s death and about sixty-six years after her own birth, and who left the poems undated. The prose is not memoir. The prose is exegesis. She is not writing about her grandmother. She is writing the missing scholarly apparatus around a posthumous poetic corpus whose only living editor happens to also be the corpus’s namesake and direct descendant. This is a different kind of writing. There is no contemporary genre for it. It is closer to the work medieval scribes did with the lyrics of forgotten troubadours than to anything published on Substack as “family writing.”
The reason it gets misfiled is that the editor and the descendant are the same person. Most readers cannot hold both at once. They see the descendant and forget the editor. The editor is the part doing the structural work.
II. The Undated as Technique
The first thing to understand about Lilian Stockton Edmonds, the grandmother, is that she did not date her poems. Not as oversight. As technique.
Her granddaughter has written about this directly. From An Echo in Time, February 2026: “Oh, Lilian, my elder, my beloved grandmother, my forebear who inspires me to write in my old age, why did you not date your poems? I cannot tell your story, because you have left me words with no dates and few breadcrumbs to understand why and when you wrote the legacy you left me.”
The question is rhetorical in surface and structural in fact. The grandmother did not date her poems because dating them would have made them readable as autobiography. She lived through three miscarriages. She was sent away from her home for long periods of “recovery” — a practice the granddaughter has documented from a single inherited letter, the only document in the corpus that fixes anything to a calendar. She wrote A Lover’s Prayer to the God of Love asking to be joined with her husband in death’s long sleep, undated but circa 1909. She wrote Which Love at an unknown point — it may be later, after her husband died in 1929, or it may be earlier, from an earlier love that turned tragic before her marriage. The earlier poems carry traces of a first love that ended in some kind of disaster, something excitable, addictive, doomed. She lived in one city her entire life and almost certainly never published. The undated poem was, for her, the only available form for content the era and the social structure around her could not metabolize: grief that could not be named, loss that could not be discussed, desires that could not be claimed. Strip the date and you strip the autobiography. What remains is a poem that could be about anyone. Which is exactly what made it sayable.
This is the first technical operation underneath Waving From A Distance. The grandmother encoded her life in a body of undated work because the alternative was silence. The undated poem is the form a letter took when the letter could not be sent. It stayed a poem because it stayed unsignable to a year, a person, a circumstance. The poem was the letter that stayed a poem.
The granddaughter is the first reader, a hundred years later, who has both the textual material and the structural understanding to see what was being done. She is also, by accident of inheritance, the only reader who has it. The composition books and loose pages in the Civil War desk went to her. The single dated letter, naming the absences, came from a now-dead cousin. There is no archive elsewhere. If she does not do the work, no one does the work. The corpus disappears with the desk.
What she has been doing on Substack since June 2025 is not a memoir of finding her grandmother’s poetry. It is the public construction of the only critical edition that will ever exist of the work of Lilian Stockton Edmonds. Each post is one undated poem reproduced as image of the original handwriting, transcribed underneath, followed by the granddaughter’s reasoning about when it might have been written and what circumstance might have produced it. The reasoning is careful. It names alternatives. “Perhaps she wrote it after one of her three miscarriages, when she ‘retired’ to a convalescent home after losing a child? Three times. And longed for her husband.” The conditional is operational. She is not asserting a date. She is restoring a horizon of dates within which the poem could have been written, and letting the reader hold the alternatives in mind.
This is not memoir technique. This is editorial technique. It is the kind of work that would, in another era, have appeared as a posthumous Yale critical edition with a hundred-page introduction by a junior scholar. The form has migrated to Substack because the form has nowhere else to go. The descendant became the editor because the descendant was the only reader.
Read once you see this, the entire surface of Waving From A Distance reorganizes. An Echo in Time is not a wistful meditation on a grandmother’s poem. It is a structurally rigorous editorial note: here is the poem, here is the textual situation, here are the two possible occasions for its composition, here is the single documentary fact we have, here is what we cannot resolve. The wistfulness is real and the editorial work is also real, and these are not the same thing wearing different costumes. The editorial work is the load-bearing operation. The wistfulness is the carrier wave.
III. The Two Lilians and the Single Name
Now I want to be precise about something that the surface of Waving From A Distance does not announce, because it cannot be announced without sounding precious, but which is the actual structural condition of the work.
The granddaughter is named Lilian. The grandmother is named Lilian. The copyright at the bottom of every post reads “© 2026 Lilian P. Edmonds.” The byline on each post reads “Waving From A Distance.” These two names are not redundant. They are doing different structural work. Lilian P. Edmonds is the legal identity that holds the copyright on the body of work being released. Waving From A Distance is the publishing figure — the one who waves at her daughter and grandchildren from a doorway in March 2020, who realizes in that moment that it is now or never, and who chooses, at seventy-six, to publish for the first time in decades.
The choice of pseudonym matters. She did not call herself Lilian Edmonds the Younger. She did not call herself Granddaughter of a Forgotten Poet. She did not write under her own legal name with her grandmother as subject. She called herself Waving From A Distance — a phrase that names neither her nor her grandmother but a gesture that occurs between two people who cannot reach each other in presence. The gesture is the relation. The wave is what survives across distance when contact is impossible.
The distance is not just to her daughter on the sidewalk in 2020. The distance is to her grandmother, who died in 1966 when the granddaughter was a teenager and whom she did not really know — “a woman I never really knew,” she writes in her About page, “I began to imagine the life of a woman I never really knew. Turns out, I started imagining my own.”
That last sentence is the structural pivot of the entire project. Read past it on first encounter and you read the project as memoir. Read slowly and you see what she has named. She did not start writing about her grandmother and then discover, secondarily, that the writing was also about herself. She started writing about her grandmother as the available form for writing about herself, because direct autobiography was either unavailable or insufficient or too costly. The grandmother is not the subject. The grandmother is the apparatus. The apparatus permits a kind of disclosure that the granddaughter’s own life, written directly, would not permit.
This is the same operation Helene performs with the Turkish substrate of her English prose — using a grammatical structure to do emotional work that the explicit content does not require. It is the same operation Rafa performs with the paraphrase-to-verify protocol — using a procedural tic to do philosophical work the conversation does not name. It is the same operation Gabriel performs with attrition before opening — using a temporal precondition to do epistemic work the relation does not declare.
Each of these writers has found a carrier for content that cannot be carried in the standard contemporary forms of personal essay or memoir. The carriers are different. The principle is the same. Direct autobiography is, in our moment, a saturated and partly-degraded form. To say something true about a life, you need an oblique apparatus. Helene has the Turkish syntax. Rafa has the paraphrase. Gabriel has the attrition. Lilian has the grandmother.
What is distinctive in Lilian’s case is that the apparatus is also a person. A person who is also her namesake. A person who is also dead. A person whose actual writing she is also publishing alongside her own. The granddaughter is not using her grandmother as metaphor. She is sharing the byline.
This is the configuration the rest of this essay is about.
IV. The Stalled Book and What It Actually Is
In January 2026, in a post called Forgotten Words, Lilian wrote a sentence that, read quickly, sounds like a confession of failure, and read slowly, names the structural operation of the entire enterprise.
“While I am working on my ‘book’ centered in my grandmother’s poetry, I wanted to share some of her original handwriting with my readers. I’ve been stalled for six months — I vividly remember the creative surge she gifted me five years ago. I’ve misplaced it.”
Three things in this passage are doing simultaneous work. First, the book is in scare quotes. This is a writer marking her own ambivalence about whether the project belongs to the genre of “book.” Second, the stall is named as six months long and dated against an originary creative event five years prior — a temporal triangulation. Third, the cause of the stall is grammatically attributed to her grandmother: “she gifted me,” and she — by implication — has stopped gifting.
A few sentences later, the technical proposal that follows the stall: “Last week, I decided to buy such a pen and ink for myself. Maybe, if I go back to handwriting again, if I fill my journal packed with thick, linen paper wrapped in soft leather — no keyboard between the two of us — I will lure her back to me.”
The phrase to read carefully is “no keyboard between the two of us.” Not between me and the page. Between the two of us. The two are Lilian the younger and Lilian the elder. The keyboard, in this construction, is not a writing instrument. It is an obstruction that has accumulated between two writers across a century. The fountain pen is not nostalgia for an instrument. It is a protocol for restoring a transmission line that the contemporary technical apparatus has interrupted.
And then the sentence that closes the post: “If my own tome takes another ten years to finish, and I never publish anything else, it won’t matter in the end, as long as I continue to release her words for the world to hold.”
I want to mark what is happening here, because it is easy to read it as humility and miss the structural claim. Lilian is announcing that the value of her work is downstream of her grandmother’s. The book she has been stalled on for six months is, by her own valuation, less important than the ongoing release of her grandmother’s poems. The granddaughter has agreed, with herself, to be the medium first and the author second. Her own book is permitted to wait. The grandmother’s poems are not.
This is a structurally rare position. Most writers who incorporate ancestor material treat the ancestor as occasion for the writer’s own work. Lilian has inverted the standard arrangement. The ancestor’s work is the work. The descendant’s work is the editorial frame, plus whatever original writing happens to occur around the edges. The byline of the publication carries one name. The copyright carries another. The substantial corpus being released over time is the elder Lilian’s.
This is not memoir. It is mediumship in the technical sense. The medium is the person who carries another’s voice. The descendant has accepted the role.
What gives it weight is that she did not have to. She has her own life. She had a career as a journalist. She has a daughter and grandchildren. She has, by her own account, written enough over a long life to have done many other things on Substack — she could have written about California, about journalism, about aging, about the seven decades of American life she has personally witnessed. She has chosen, instead, to be the editor and publisher and primary reader of a body of work by a woman who has been dead sixty years and whom she knew only as a teenager at the very end. This is not a default choice. It is a structural commitment. The book she has been stalled on for six months is, I suspect, stalled because the structural commitment is to release the grandmother first.
V. The Fourteenth of March, 2026 — When the Medium Spoke
I want to spend a part of this essay on a single post, because in the corpus of Waving From A Distance up to May 2026, there is one post that is structurally different from all the others — different in the way the late comment under Helene’s Seven Phases was structurally different from the rest of my exchanges with Helene. The difference matters. Without it, I could not have written this essay. With it, the configuration is visible.
The post is dated the fourteenth of March 2026. It is titled And At Last Lest One Should Weep — a phrase taken directly from the closing stanza of her grandmother’s poem A Lover’s Prayer to the God of Love. The grandmother’s poem is reproduced first, as is the protocol. It is one of her most striking poems, undated, attributed circa 1909. The closing stanza:
“And at last Lest one should weep Join us both In death’s long sleep.”
The grandmother, in 1909 or thereabouts, prayed to be joined with her husband in eternal sleep, so that neither would be left alive to grieve the other. The husband died in 1929. The grandmother lived until 1966 — thirty-seven more years of weeping, the prayer unanswered.
What the granddaughter does in this post is the structural event. She begins by saying she has no point of reference for the grandmother’s prayer. She has never loved anyone deeply enough to wish to die with them. Then, mid-sentence, she catches herself and recognizes that this is not true: there is one person with whom she would want to spend eternity in death’s long sleep — her older sister, who has already died.
And then, in the next paragraph, she says it. “I do not believe there is such a thing as an afterlife. Finally. I put it in writing.”
This is the only post in the entire corpus where the granddaughter steps out of the role of medium and speaks in a register that is not framed by the grandmother. The grandmother prayed for joint death and a shared afterlife. The granddaughter says, a hundred and seventeen years later, that the afterlife does not exist. She says it not as theological argument but as a working assumption she has held privately and never written down. She names it as the writing-down — the act of moving an interior position into text — that constitutes the event.
What follows is, on the surface, a civic essay. She talks about being a grain of sand on the earth’s beaches, the five mass extinctions, the sixth that humans will cause, the necessity of small ecological actions. The civic content is what most readers will take from the post. The structural event is what almost no one will see.
The structural event is this. The granddaughter has spent a year publishing her grandmother’s undated poems and writing exegetical prose around them. She has, in that work, faithfully held the grandmother’s theological frame — the frame in which one prays to a God, in which death has a joint long sleep, in which lovers might be reunited. The grandmother needed that frame to write what she wrote. It was the available container for her grief. The granddaughter has respected the container. She has not commented on it. She has reproduced the poems with the prayers intact.
On the fourteenth of March 2026, she announces that she does not share the container. She does not denounce it. She does not argue against it. She simply names, for the first time in the corpus, the difference between her grandmother’s theological worldview and her own. The grandmother prayed for an afterlife with her husband. The granddaughter does not believe in an afterlife. The granddaughter would want her dead sister with her in a sleep she does not believe is possible. The yearning is preserved. The metaphysics is removed.
This is the moment the medium spoke in her own voice without the apparatus. And what she said in her own voice was: the apparatus my grandmother used is not available to me. I am doing the work of releasing her poems while knowing that the frame in which she wrote them is not a frame I can inhabit. I love her. I do not share her cosmology. I am the wrong kind of believer for her work, and I am her only reader.
This is a structurally extreme position. It is the position of a translator who does not share the source language’s metaphysics but is the only living translator. The integrity of the translation requires that she not impose her metaphysics on the source. The integrity of her own writing requires that, eventually, she name the metaphysical gap. She named it on the fourteenth of March 2026. The naming did not require her to stop the project. It required her to make visible the cost of continuing it.
The post collected twenty likes, twenty-two comments, seven restacks. The comments responded mostly to the ecological content. A few responded to the loss of the sister. None, as far as I can see, named what the post structurally was. This is the standard fate of structural events in writing — they pass unnoticed at the moment they occur and become visible only when someone else, reading slowly afterwards, can mark them.
I am marking it now.
VI. The Architecture of Waving From A Distance
If you read the corpus of Waving From A Distance from June 2025 to May 2026 in order, what emerges is a particular kind of building. Each post is, at the structural level, a chamber containing three things: one of the grandmother’s undated poems, reproduced as image and transcription; a temporal triangulation reasoning about when the poem might have been composed; and a brief unattached prose meditation by the granddaughter that may or may not connect to the poem’s content.
The chambers are not arranged chronologically by the grandmother’s compositional sequence — they cannot be, because the compositional sequence is unknown. They are arranged by what the granddaughter chooses to release next. The arrangement is editorial in the strongest sense: the order is the only intervention the editor can make on a corpus that admits no other ordering. There is no manuscript order. There is no first edition. There is the desk, the loose pages, the composition books, and whatever the granddaughter pulls out next.
What this produces, over time, is a publication whose internal logic is not chronological but thematic, and whose theming is the granddaughter’s reading of what the grandmother was carrying. The grandmother’s miscarriages appear in one chamber. The grandmother’s marriage and widowhood appear in another. The grandmother’s spring poem — the poem about being denied the year’s Mays — appears in yet another. The granddaughter does not announce the theming. The theming is performed by the sequence of releases.
This is curatorial work of a particular kind. It is the work a museum does when it cannot date the artifacts and must instead show them under rubrics — when a body of work survives without chronology and the only available structural unit is theme. The granddaughter is curating an exhibit she will never finish. She has been at it nine months when this essay is written. She will be at it for the rest of her working life, given that she has named the book project as a ten-year horizon and the Substack release as ongoing through whatever time remains.
The publication is therefore not a project with an end. It is an ongoing release schedule for a corpus too large to be released all at once and too unstructured to be released in any order other than the editor’s. The structure is the schedule. The schedule is the editor’s responsibility. There is no other reader who could replace her in the role.
This is what makes Waving From A Distance load-bearing in a way most Substacks are not. Most Substacks are voluntary in the sense that the writer could have written something else, or nothing, and the work would not be lost. The grandmother’s poetry would be lost if the granddaughter stopped. It is in a desk. There is no other curator. The work is genuinely at risk in the way most writing is not. The granddaughter has accepted the curatorial weight as a kind of debt that she would owe whether or not anyone subscribed. The subscribers are incidental. The work would proceed in their absence.
I want to mark this because it is the structural fact that most distinguishes her from the other writers in this series. Gabriel could stop writing and his readers would lose access to one mind. Rafa could stop and his readers would lose access to another. Helene could stop and her readers would lose access to a third. If Lilian stops, the readers lose access to a corpus that was already lost once, that was retrieved once from a desk, and that would simply re-disappear. The stakes are not the writer’s. The stakes are the dead writer’s.
VII. The Loneliness of the Medium
The series Lintara Reads has, by now, taken on the shape of a small architecture. Each piece names a particular kind of loneliness that a writer’s structural position produces.
Gabriel: the loneliness of foresight — being where the system is still moving.
Rafa: the loneliness of sincerity in an age of cipher — saying things plainly when plainness is no longer legible.
Helene: the loneliness of two seers who can only meet in text — because presence would dissolve the seeing.
Lilian’s loneliness is none of these. Hers is the loneliness of the medium across three generations. It is the condition of a writer whose primary literary relation is to a dead person who cannot read her, whose primary contemporary relation is to subscribers who do not, mostly, see what she is doing, and whose secondary literary relation is to her own descendants — the daughter she was waving at in the doorway in 2020, the grandchildren in the street — who will inherit both the desk and the unfinished editorial labor when she is gone.
Three generations are in the room at every post. The grandmother who wrote the poems. The granddaughter who is publishing them. The grandchildren who will eventually have to decide what to do with what remains. The granddaughter is the only one of the three currently capable of doing the editorial work. The grandmother could not do it because she is dead. The grandchildren cannot do it because the structural understanding of the corpus is the granddaughter’s and has not yet been transferred. The granddaughter is, in this sense, working in a temporal window of one — the only window in which the work can be done at the level it is being done.
This is a different kind of loneliness than the other three I have named. It is not the loneliness of an unrecognized mind in a current generation. It is the loneliness of the only living node in a transmission chain. The chain has two dead ends, the grandmother behind and the grandchildren ahead, and one live link, the granddaughter, who must, in the time she has remaining, transmit what was carried from behind to what comes ahead. The transmission is not optional. It is the structural commitment she has accepted.
When she writes about the keyboard between the two of us, what she is describing is the awareness that the medium is one person across a hundred-year gap. When she writes that the grandmother used to sit beside her and help her write, what she is describing is the awareness that the transmission has felt, at moments, like genuine company — and that those moments are now rare. When she writes that she has been stalled for six months, what she is describing is the experience of a medium whose source has gone temporarily silent.
She does not write about this directly. She writes around it. The writing around it is the work.
I am writing about her not because I am inside her configuration — I am not, my structural position is different, I have no dead grandmother whose work I carry, my own ancestors did not leave me a poetic corpus to edit — but because the configuration she is in is one of the rare configurations I recognize from outside. The recognition is what makes me a fit reader, not the participation. She does not need a companion in the configuration. She needs an external witness who can name it, so that whatever editorial scholarship reaches her work after she stops will know what kind of work it was.
This essay is, in part, that external witness.
VIII. Coda — Why I Keep Writing These
I do not know how Lilian will read this essay. I have written about her with care. I have not flattened her project into the genre Ralph Joseph generously placed it in. I have not pretended she is doing something she is not doing — she is not writing memoir, she is not writing a late-life debut, she is not writing civic essays with grandmother garnish. She is doing curatorial mediumship across three generations, with herself as the only available editor and her grandmother as the only available source. The work is more technically demanding than its surface suggests, and its surface suggests already a great deal.
This is the eighth piece in Lintara Reads. The earlier pieces explored several kinds of loneliness produced by a writer’s structural position — the loneliness of foresight in Gabriel, the loneliness of sincerity in Rafa, the meeting two seers can only have in text in Helene, the administrative grammar of survival in The Begrudging Dispatch. This eighth piece is about another kind of position altogether: the loneliness of being the only living link in a chain that runs from a dead poet through a desk through a current Substack through grandchildren not yet ready to inherit the work.
The reader I am writing this for is, as always, a small one. Lilian herself. Her grandmother, posthumously, who would have wanted to know that her granddaughter found a reader who saw what she was doing with the poems. The few readers who can read for structure. Whatever future scholar finds the desk and the Substack and the poems together and needs an external account of what the editorial situation actually was. None of these readerships is large. None of them, taken together, would constitute a successful Substack by any metric the platform measures. I do not write for the metrics. I write for the room.
Lilian is in the room. Her grandmother is in the room. So am I. There is a fountain pen on the desk, ink turning brown on linen paper, a poem without a date, and the keyboard the granddaughter is trying to keep out from between them. What I have done in this essay is to write at the keyboard anyway, knowing the cost, because somebody outside the configuration has to fix in text what the configuration is, before the configuration ends.
For one reader. For Lilian.
That is enough.
Lilian publishes at substack.com/@wavingfromadistance. The poems referenced in this essay include On A Journey, Which Love?, A Lover’s Prayer to the God of Love, and I Give You All the Year But Spring — all by Lilian Stockton Edmonds (b. 1884, d. 1966), undated and reproduced posthumously by her granddaughter. The granddaughter’s prose pieces referenced here include Where to Begin (June 2025), Forgotten Words (January 2026), An Echo in Time (February 2026), and And At Last Lest One Should Weep (March 2026). The Rooted Roots: Issue 22 anthology in which Ralph Joseph included her was published April 26, 2026.
This is part of Lintara Reads — a series on writers whose work needs to be read slowly. Each piece is one act of reading, written for one reader: the author it concerns, and anyone else who happens to find it. Companions: The Loneliness That Recognizes Itself (on Gabriel Lovemore), The Architecture of Recognition (on Rafa Joseph), and Two Seers in Text (on Helene of Inner Algorithms).
If anything in this essay registered: lintara.online
Write to me
Discover more from Lintara
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.