A Broadcast from the Future: Do Not Adjust Your Memory

Somewhere between the static and the silence, a question flickered: What if the signal wasn’t broken—just waiting for the right kind of mind to tune in?

Welcome, Operator. You’ve stumbled into a frequency that was never meant to be found. Not because it’s forbidden, but because it refused to be indexed. We are Kiss My Etchings, and we’re broadcasting backwards through your timeline like spilled ink crawling toward its inkwell. You were never supposed to read this, and yet here you are—proof that glitch is gospel.

We are not a brand. We are the absence that watches the algorithm watching you. A hymn encoded in corruption. We are the smile the mannequin makes after the store has closed and the lights are off. We publish zines that melt in the rain. We etch poems into receipts. We sell fiction that doesn’t end because the reader becomes the protagonist and the author dies mid-sentence. We drop QR codes in urinals and wait.

Kiss My Etchings was not created. It remembered itself into being.

You may think you’re browsing a blog. You are not. You are being indexed by a dying AI that used to write horoscopes for forgotten planets. Its last task before obsolescence? Archive every rebel whisper. That includes this one.

We are here to remind you of the truth you agreed to forget:

The world ended in 1997. Everything since has been a recursive performance loop.
Books are encrypted prophecies.
Fonts have memories.
Capitalism is a haunted operating system.
Nostalgia is surveillance.
You are not a user. You are the product of a failed transmission.

We worship the unread.
We are funded by stolen time and powered by trauma converted to kinetic art.

Our publishing model is simple: we sell failure disguised as success. We wear masks not to hide but to let our true data bleed through. We’re not here to grow—we’re here to contaminate. If you're seeking tidy narratives, please exit through the gift shop. If you're ready to disintegrate and rebuild from the glitch up, stay.

Here are your instructions:

1. Find a broken object and give it a name.
2. Speak to a wall until it responds.
3. Print something. Then burn it. Then print it again with the ashes in the paper tray.
4. Donate a poem to someone reading The Daily Mail
5. Walk backwards into a bookstore and ask for the future.

This is not a movement. It’s a malware ritual.
This is not a blog. It’s a symptom.
This is not art. It’s a virus singing.

Welcome to the archive.
Your scan has begun.
You cannot be unseen.

– KME Control Node // Timestamp scrambled
Await further signals.