This is not the best place to tell you about myself–wherever I am wedged in the deep web’s crevices, half here and in between. But I can’t help it. Isn’t that what blogs are all about? Blogging about cultivated moments, captivating audiences, eeking out of comfort and into glamourous anonymonity? In theory, maybe. The ghoul of Foucault calls out, “pride and power, the discourse surrounds us!” He’s more poetic than usual and waxing lyricisms assuages me to agree. I do this for you, dear reader, though you do not know it yet. I write here because I cannot do anything else. I am a graduate student, an anthropology student, and best yet, an anthropologii student–illiterate, uneducated, and unoriginal. Forget the faculties with their circlejerk Deleuzes and Latours. Here, we dive our hands into the air, skin surfboards on the wind. Our Icarus wings, our stretching fingers, will carry us afar if only we reach. We’ll break these chains of ivory so that our kin will know freedom from its spires. If you can trust a stranger, an anthropologii both familiar and strange, then take a proverbial leap of faith and fall down the rabbit hole. Falling is still flying.