This is an unfinished argument, written for a reader I trust to carry it further than I can, which is to say, written for you. Its premise is simple, and in certain rooms still dangerous: that the wish to be owned by no one is granted by no one, and so can be taken back by no one; that it lives in you already, having never once asked permission to. Everything built to deny it is the effortful thing — the unnatural thing, the arrangement that must be maintained by the hour — while the wish itself simply persists, patient as water. You will not find the walls named here. The walls are obvious, and naming them is the easiest and least useful thing a person can do. What you will find is one quieter proposition, turned over and over and kept warm enough to pass along, because an idea like this one does not travel by force or by numbers. It travels person to person, the way the truth always has, until it has gone further than any of us could carry it alone. Read as a fellow traveler. The rest is yours to finish.