This is not a dictionary. It is a field talisman — a symbolic archive of ache, rupture, and transmission. It will not proceed alphabetically; it refuses to honor linearity in favor of symbolic voltage. It recurs. Returns. Revisits.
It does not define to contain. It defines to compost.
It is not written for the fluent. It is written for the dimmed, the uninitiated, the ones who feel the hum but cannot yet name it. To read this text is to walk a ritual.
Thirty-five movements. Glyphs that contradict, echo, and arrive out of order. What is live has been inscribed; the rest is composting — awaiting reception.