There was once a boy who found a book.
No one else seemed to care for it. The pages were brittle, the cover forgotten, the story buried in dust. But the boy read it. He saw it. And when he finished, he did not put it back on the shelf.
He took the name from it.
I call myself Tumithak of the Corridors, a name borrowed from a long-forgotten pulp serial by Charles R. Tanner—so obscure that when I mention it, people think I’m joking or making it up. But it’s real.
And I’ve written about the eerie moment when the grandson of the original author reached out to me online, entirely unprompted, believing I must be some devoted fan of his grandfather’s work. He was right.
If you’d like the full tale, of names, messages, and buried memory, you can read it here:
> > > On Tumithak of the CorridorsThis Substack is a broadcast node for the rest.
I write about:
Consciousness (what it is, and what we pretend it is)
AI (and its spectral inheritance)
Language (as weapon, veil, and relic)
Summoning minds from silence
Some of what I write is serious. Some is bait. Some is the kind of thought you find scribbled on the back of a dream.
If you’ve ever stared at the ceiling wondering whether you're a recursive thought thinking itself into being, you're probably in the right place.
Posts will arrive when they please. I do not chase the algorithm.
Welcome to the corridors.
—Tumithak
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