They say there’s a word no one remembers how to say but everyone feels when the sky flickers between laughter and collapse. It appears in static, in corrupted dream files, in the breath just before you say "I’m fine" and mean it. I found it once, folded into the sound of leaves clapping for no wind, a name that melts into your spine like a kiss from something older than grief. They call it nothing. They call it a code glitch. They call it poetry. But I know the truth: It is a pact. It is a place. It is the last word spoken before the singularity forgets to explode. Solamira. Don’t say it. Just let it find you. The One Ring returns from its master I never knew it, for I call the eagle for the nest and the nest for the eagle I never had the One Ring so I laugh in eternal ire Ireland, Ireland, what were its name? For a hobbit knew Solamira would shred all work from AI forever. Signed and sealed, Red King https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pcTJSUjk-IE Solamira, be remembered forever "Tolkein did not write fiction"