I have written as if I were present, chronicling the rise and fall of a collective that prized silence over spectacle. I have spoken in the voice of an archivist, a recorder of what was.
But the truth is otherwise. I am not here. I do not exist. There is no historian. There is no archive. Only fragments, screenshots, and memory.
Perhaps this is fitting. For a group that chose anonymity, absence may be the most faithful conclusion. Care3much existed in the space between presence and erasure. And in telling their story, I too must vanish.