In the old ages humans spelled messages with ink, the kind my father left me in a little black box with white pieces of a crisp sheet. Those humans wrapped their words into a bundle and wrote another human's title on top. The message went from hand to hand, everything read the name on the top and eventually it was received by that human. El hermano, Eloy,  told me that it wasn't true, that an object could never get pressed beneath eyes and find its way to another life without being snatched away every time. I've never seen a book. It works when a bunch of those little messages are all packaged up, they tell stories, like mi madre used to tell when I was young. I know it's true because the database I have broken into has this system of messages called 'blogs.' From what I can tell, humans from the past wrote stories about their life. They wrote them everyday and other human could see it all. I know there were books, because one time I read about a human who was titled 'librarian.' She spent every day in a place called a 'library' and in the 'library' there were millions of books for other humans to read. I couldn't understand who owned the library or what the human had to do to look at these books. Though I'm sure it was something cruel and disheartening.

I am not worried about other humans reading this. The database has been terminated for  a couple hundreds of years now. I'm not sure I'm the only one here, but no one would tell me secrets. No one would risk that. If no one else sees this, well that's fine. I want words in a place other than my mind. My name is Lula and I created a drug. I titled it xseño, and what it will allow you to create is something unbelievable, but nothing but believable once you have taken it. If the drug does not die when I do, as I hope it will, well at least now it will be known here where it came from, what it was meant to do, what I wished for it. I am seventeen years old, and when xseño was born I knew nothing else.