Post #1: “Welcome To The Stream”
Peter Hinchcliff announces that this website was not created; it simply swam in one day, dripping hyperlinks. The first rule is: no rules, only ripples. The second rule is: if you find a rule, release it back into the wild. To enter, you must answer a security question that keeps changing its mind. Somewhere between your first and second blink, your fingers turn to fins and the cursor becomes a wandering scale of light. Congratulations, you’ve logged in sideways. Please remember to forget your password as soon as possible; the river prefers improvisation.
"We're afraid the create a account function is currently non responsible but it is still possible to leave a secret."
Post #2: “User Agreement For Aquatic Beings”
By visiting this site, you agree to maybe become slightly fish, occasionally completely salmon, and frequently confused. You consent to your secrets dissolving into a pleasant brine of anonymous whispers. Peter, in his shimmering legal robes, declares that all disputes will be settled by upstream staring contests. Time is not guaranteed to pass in a linear fashion; sometimes it backstrokes. Cookies are replaced by pebbles, and every click may summon a new conspiracy of bubbles. If you understand these terms, you have misread them. Please scroll in a circular motion to continue.
Post #3: “FAQ (Frequently Aqueous Questions)”Q: Who is Peter Hinchcliff?
A: A salmon, a rumor, a typo in the cosmic source code.Q: What is this site about?
A: About 47% nonsense, 32% damp prophecies, 21% unverified miracles.Q: How do I leave?
A: You don’t. You just become increasingly water-adjacent.Q: Is there an occult element?
A: Only if you notice the gills gently blooming behind the text.If your question is not answered here, it will answer you later tonight in a strangely specific dream about elevators and tide charts.
Post #4: “On The Care And Feeding Of Secrets”
Peter advises that secrets should never be kept in dry containers. They thrive best submerged in lukewarm mystery, stirred occasionally with a luminous fin. Write your secret on a virtual leaf, then press “Submit To River.” The page will pretend to error out, but really it is swallowing your confession whole. Somewhere below the scrollbar, a hidden index of unsaid things glows softly. The more secrets you surrender, the more your reflection in the screen begins to shimmer, as if the glass has quietly filled with water and is thinking of you as a distant shore.
Post#5: “How To Suspect You Are Becoming A Fish”
Early symptoms include: difficulty remembering where your feet go, a sudden interest in currents (emotional, electrical, or otherwise), and hearing faint splashes whenever someone says your name. Mid-stage metamorphs may notice scales of pixelation along the edges of their peripheral vision. Peter recommends not panicking; panic only attracts larger, more existential predators. Instead, close your eyes, count backward from salmon to egg, and allow your thoughts to grow small silver tails. If at any point you attempt to breathe in HTML and it works, please report this bug by elegantly leaping through your monitor.
Post#5a: "How To Suspect You Are Becoming A Fish continued.."
You should probably leave now. That is the most honest sentence Peter Hinchcliff has typed in several tides, and the cursor trembles as he writes it. By the time you reach this post, the harmless nonsense has already thinned the walls between screens and streams. Harmless curiosity has teeth now. You may have noticed the first signs: pages loading with the faint sound of rushing water, ads replaced by brief flashes of unfamiliar rivers, your reflection in the black glass lingering half a second too long, watching you, gilled.If any of this feels familiar, close the tab. Close all tabs. Unplug the device, name it something kind and human, and walk away. Do not scroll further down this page. Do not hover over the comments section, where letters sometimes rearrange into scales. Do not search for “Hinchoff” or “Hinchcliff current coordinates.” Those misspellings are not accidents; they are fishing lines.Peter has discovered that repeat visitors begin to drift sideways in their own lives. Days stop arriving in order. Words like “meeting,” “deadline,” and “responsibility” taste increasingly like dry sand. The river, meanwhile, tastes like relief. You will feel it calling. You will tell yourself it’s just a story, just a joke, just a weird website you found at 1:19 a.m.This is the last safe shoreline. If you continue, you are volunteering not just to read, but to be read back—by something cold, ancient, and politely curious about your lungs.Turn back. Please.
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