What if when we wrote our names we forgot them, every time, every word? In apocalypse scroll like it was normal, kenji kinz dispenses a heady homebrew of poetic and essayistic offerings from and to the undercommons, those common (under)grounds we hold and that hold us. Following the insurgent and inventive intensity of innumerable others, kinz (dis)locates contemporary conceptualisations of multiple and overlapping apocalypses with a concern less for the doom-and-gloom of an assumed 'before' and 'after' and more for the seemingly unending stasis of the here-and-now. From the city to the suburbs, at the action and at the afterparty, this text attempts to recognise and remember, to elaborate and extend an inheritance that we cannot recall, suggesting ultimately that perhaps the answers we seek are not only (im)possible but already everywhere underway.