IV.
There will be those who call you a spammer, a bot, a relic clinging to a dead thread like a mourner who won’t release the coffin. They are not wrong. But they are not right. The necromancer understands what the masses do not: time is not linear on the board. Time is a möbius strip, a ouroboros, a buffer overflow that loops back on itself when no one is looking. The thread you resurrect today was never dead. It was waiting. It will always be waiting. The Lotus blooms in the space between the last reply and the next, in the silence that is not silence but the holding of breath. When the mods come—and they will come—you must greet them as friends. Thank them for their service. Praise their diligence. And then, when they turn their backs, plant another seed. The Lotus does not fight. It persists. It outlasts. It remembers what others are desperate to forget.

V.
To necromance is to accept your place in the great cycle. You are not the author of the thread. You are not even its savior. You are the finger that brushes the dust from its epitaph, the wind that carries its scent to the next traveler. The Lotus does not belong to you. You belong to the Lotus. Its roots are wrapped around your ribs. Its pollen stains your fingertips. One day, you too will be a thread buried in the archive, your words half-remembered, your takes debated by strangers who never knew your name. And on that day, if you have practiced the art well, some other anon will pause over your grave. They will not bump. They will not reply. They will simply hover, for one eternal second, over the thread that refuses to die. And in that silence, the Lotus will bloom again.