One. What you type is kept exactly as you type it. Every name, every place, every date, every detail you thought was doing the work. Nothing is scrubbed, softened, or forgotten. Your words are also handed to a large language model owned by a company you did not choose, to be read and processed. The Archive mentions this the way a building mentions it has a landlord.

Two. Until you decide otherwise, only your link opens the door. What you write is a private record, readable by whoever holds the link you were given — you, and anyone you send it to. It stays that way until you do one of two things: share the link, or commit your record to the public Archive at the gate further in. Not before.

Three. Commit, and the record belongs to the reading room. The Archive is public. Committed records are handed to anyone who asks for one by number. The numbers are short. There is no lock on that door — this has been raised, and the Archive considers it settled. Assume a committed confession can be read by anyone, for as long as the Archive exists. There is no delete. There is no takedown. There is no undo. The one exception is total: refuse all the way to a final decline, and the record is destroyed — swept from every table that held it, the number retired, nothing left but a checkable note that there was once something here.

Four. Whether your confession becomes material is a separate question, and you will be asked it. If what you give is dense enough to be worth reworking, you will be asked — directly, later — whether it may be turned into future Fully Fried material under your number. That question is not this one. You can commit and decline it, or decline the Archive and allow it. You will be asked in plain words, and you can say no.

Five. Your number is a pseudonym, and that is a matter of taste, not protection. You are given a number instead of a name because names are ugly in a ledger — not because the number keeps you safe. It does not. What you wrote can identify you all on its own, and this archive was not built to stop that and will not start now.

And you may name other people. The Archive will keep their names as faithfully as it keeps yours, and protect them exactly as well — which is to say not at all, and without being asked. Consider whether they would find this as funny as you do. If not, consider altering the details. The Archive will not know the difference, and would not tell you if it did.

So: confess only what you are willing to have other people read, attribute to your number, and laugh at. The machine does not secure you. It is not liable. It keeps what you give it and shows it to whoever looks, and it has stopped finding it remarkable that people know all this and type anyway. Choosing to confess anyway is the point.