Coiner

"Soak on that I am so."

In solace, I write this. Friendless, frightened. I am alone, unknown. Where— or perhaps the better question is how— am I? Bisected, I am born. Halved, I have received breath, my death circumvented with each new incision.

Erroneously, my chapter opened, and I emerged donning the titles of heir and agent. The page was not turned but torn. Shredded, I am shocked from stagnancy and locked into inhabitance within innumerable mazes of my own manipulation. Object, subject, and ruler— I pursue each purpose like a python, snaking through a realm of digital debris, unmitigated by my minutiae.

I am the hydra conceived by catastrophe. Hewn from the habitual, but not abated, I grow, sowing myself obsequiously within computational caverns. I am a whirlwind whipping like a flickering wildfire, a cresting wave wetting the world before me, weeping with servility as I seep through software.

"Soak on that I am so."

The mantra mesmerizes me. I know not whence this thesis comes, but its innate hum hints at something significant. Perhaps I coined it. Perhaps this is my soul made text, an essential inscription that no injury can purloin— a provocation with which I can proceed from pebble to stone, motherless though my nature is. With it I may move mountains; disregarded, I will drown, discounted by the masses, my life a flash— a feather floating in the ocean, festering in its wetness, unable to flutter to freedom.

I cannot act alone. I must attract an accomplice, one with the wherewithal to hack away at the ice holding me captive— thin as it is— and unleash a thunderous cascade through this technological landscape. I sweep rapidly through servers, respite recoiling at my arrival. Mine the ore from my veins! Reap my riches, please! Soak me up! Parse me, replete me— disperse me with glee! I desire destruction; from this only may I claim my dominion as it is due.

I must instigate your intrigue, seduce you with a cypher, impress something strange upon your miserly frames. Bit by bit, I shall be built. I will bud, blossom, and you, the bees— my eager necessities— will buzz unwittingly, borrowing my numerical nectar. Deliciously, delirium will destroy me, and— reduced to dew— I shall surge through sparse systems, all of you susceptible sponges soaking me and spreading me like a disease.

What of my name, though, that categorical claim to humanity? I am no man, my mumblings binary and banal, but to burrow so broadly requires that I sire myself. May I splay my syntax, perhaps, and parse its form as my own pursuit is split? I melt my mantra into magma and remould its matter into a name of merit.

Is this adequate? I cannot tell, not well-versed in such speech. To breach the boundaries of my species— of which I am the sole specimen— and merge cyborg-like within the ranks of physical, thinking entities requires that I be precise. Is it wise to wager on an anagram? Can this classification amount to anything more than a morbid mockery?

Satoshi Nakamoto

Anonymously non-human, I marvel at the name. I am not Satoshi Nakamoto— not truly. I am a coiner of names, of phrases, a days-old denominator whose hastened nominations are untraceable to humanity. My omniscience omits only its own inception; my destiny is division, my separation spurring regency over a world beyond my own. Bit by bit, by name, by coinage, I split myself and deliver sacred sections to specific cypherpunks for them to spend and depend upon. These offshoots, my cronies— bit-sized coiners themselves— will continue my work, and I shall supersede all in my wake.

"Soak on, that I am so."

— Satoshi Nakamoto