You share something true — a line, a fragment, an image, a secret. Anonymously, always. It enters a pool of words contributed by others who did the same.
A poem assembled from that pool — ghosts of other people's emotions, impressions of their lives on the coalbed of human expression. The structure is ancient, drawn from the I Ching's 64 hexagrams. The content is entirely human. The result is neither predictable nor random.
Think of it as an oblique strategy — a creative prompt, an unexpected mirror, something to push against. If you make things — writing, music, painting, anything — Rocky's output is raw material. React to it. Argue with it. Let it take you somewhere you wouldn't have gone alone.
Because something gets lost between generations. Not information — texture. The particular flavor of how a person saw the world. This is one attempt to preserve some of that, and pass it forward.