I keep the records hidden in plain sight, scratched margins, folded pages, ink that feels more like confession than documentation. Some entries turn inward, watching me like I'm the subject instead of the hand, cataloging fractures, repetitions, moments that don’t quite feel like mine anymore.

Others are colder, more deliberate, tracing Corpsebearer in careful, almost reverent detail, as if naming its habits might keep it still.

And then there are the voices that aren’t mine at all: fragmented impressions of those I’ve spoken to, half-memories and borrowed words pressed onto the page before they can slip away.