Haunted?
We'll publish writing seeking poetry from the RX script. Haunted is conceptually hugged under the Libre umbrella, but a sister site and alter, something younger, less infamous. Our former domain was nastily attacked; we have found a cleaner beach to reorganize. Praying for the intelligence, daily, to prepare for an August publishing schedule. The Name and domain changed, but we're still the same people.
Muddy
A collective trauma: its digital container, like Libre, needs new air holes in which to breathe from. We’re that. We’re that multitude. Publishing only nonfiction exclusively. Past contributors’ works are available for archival purposes and will remain accessible as long as we're paying for this internet soil. Past objectives remain familiar, definitive, but phrases we've updated on, plugged purpose back in for extra charge. There have been months when the gymnastics of concept alone kept me from following, in sock feet, the transparencies of clinical situational depression too far. We have rewritten our philosophies. New email, but our old one still works. Libre is an idea, flexible. Blowing our first eager bubble against crowd's gun made our juvenile, serious, but immature research a reason to trust trends on Twitter/X, and to trust our own unrequited, friendly opaqueness for malfunctional advocacy on socials reason enough to bury the idea. A name change served the greater purpose of an ethical comeback. We are trying to come back. There is less laughter this time, and less reason to believe us. Our mistake is opening our mouth at all, and our expectations are humble, one piece per month.
Future tense? Hard.
Please review the new sidebar links for changes to content. We will reopen submissions in August if we can build back socials and create the foundation for responsible financing for our contributors, web tools, and long-term, annoying dream of publishing manuscripts. There is death in every public admittance we make. I am ashamed. Libre’s growth began with a springtime death. How did we accept a space silenced by failure, and how did a failed writing career have anything to do with the seasonal weight of loving something so dreary as a clumsily-designed trauma blog? Clean themes, maybe; visit the ER for a head woumd and know, squeamishly, the surreal's the same math as injury. Healing only means you get weirder. Blood type: indie advocacy. Our superficial traits are supposed to make you laugh.
Libre lives, but has a sibling for now. Cyberchondria??? Banking on better chances of reaching a digital divine /~quilibrium by refuting our most popular submissions types for realism. The non functions as the negative space in my head where the blue brain’s ghost has taken its damned rest. There’s a sense of adjusting antennae towards the blue noise we find so stimulating thru Orwell’s headphones, and at first read, the pods aren't a disorder. There’s the blue noise that the blue brain makes and I’ll sob later for writing that without a warming pad. Sleeping to brown noise tabbed feels like living 12 hours underwater. We love our critics. We pay taxes in static video.
Tonight: downloading loan applications and reviewing the long list of better plans and inspecting a plastic cup of green liquid. The outside is no longer cold but furious with advocate’s wealth. Furs shed in front of our greatest trauma dump. Taking a bite out of Big Pharma with this one. The wrong medication or dosage can ruin a life. Everything’s disturbing. Reading Jung weekly like he’s the antidote.