The names are illegible. The rule at the foot isn't.

A rule runs across the top of the back print. Under it, a column of paired lines — a role on the left, a name on the right, eleven times over. Every single one is unreadable.

At the foot, smaller than the rest, one line comes into focus: do not sell this.

That's the only sentence on the whole shirt anyone can actually read.

What is a credits page doing at the end of work nobody paid for?

The same job it does at the end of anything else — saying who did what, in order, so the labour doesn't disappear into the finished thing.

A translator, a timer, a typesetter, an editor, a proofreader, somebody who cleaned up the audio, somebody who built the file. Eleven roles is a realistic count for one release — more hands than most readers assume touched it, listed in full even though nobody's checking.

Why do the roles stay legible in spirit and the names don't?

Because the print is describing a structure, not identifying anyone — the roles are what a reader needs to understand what happened; the names are private even when they're technically public.

Most of these credits were never legal names to begin with — a handle, chosen once and kept, is the whole identity attached to the work. Drawing them as illegible marks rather than spelling any one of them out keeps the page about the shape of who does what on a release like this, not about any specific person you could go looking for.

What makes a page like this worth making carefully rather than dashing off?

Getting the order and the count right, because that's the only part a reader who does recognise this format will actually check.

Real ones run in roughly the order the work happened — translation before typesetting, timing before encoding — and a page that gets the sequence wrong reads as somebody who's never made one. The rule at the top matters too: it's the one element of pure structure in the print, separating "this is a credits page" from "this is a list." A different kind of list keeps its terms illegible for a related reason — the shape argues the case, not the specific words.

What does "do not sell this" actually mean, coming from a page like this?

It's the one rule the people on this page get to set, and it's about the work, not about money changing hands anywhere near them.

Everything above the line was made and given away. The line itself asks for exactly one thing in return: that it stays given away, passed on rather than repackaged and charged for by somebody who had no part in making it. It reads less like a warning and more like the terms the group already lived by, written down once because eleven people finally agreed it was worth saying in one place.

Does a credits page work for a project that isn't a translation?

Any group effort that produced something and never got a masthead works the same way — a fan project, a group chat that built something together, a crew that pulled off one specific thing once.

The roles change — organiser, editor, the person who kept the files backed up, the one who did the thing nobody else wanted to — but the shape stays: illegible names, legible roles, one line at the foot stating what the group actually agreed to. The physical evidence of who handled the source material shows up a different way — a shadow instead of a name, but the same instinct to credit the hand behind it.

Isn't a page of names nobody can read pointless as a credit?

The names were never the part a stranger needed to read — the roles were.

A reader who's never heard of any of these eleven people still learns exactly what went into what they're holding: how many hands, doing what, in what order. That's more information than most finished things ever disclose about themselves, even with every name spelled out. The same logic governs a file name built entirely from decisions rather than a title — the structure carries the content.

Does it print well?

Cleanly — it's a rule, two columns of short marks, and one line of real type, nothing that needs fine resolution.

Keep the two illegible columns in two distinct but muted tones so the eye reads "name, name, name" without trying to parse either one — a single flat tone for both risks reading as a printing error rather than a deliberate blur. The one readable line at the foot should sit noticeably smaller than the rest, so it reads as a footnote earning its place rather than a slogan.

How do I get one made?

Describe the page at JustOG — how many roles, and what the line at the foot should say. Pick a direction, drag the crop frame, see it composited on the real garment, and it's made to order and shipped.

Designs other people have published are in the shop.

Eleven names, and the only one anyone will ever ask about is the sentence that isn't a name at all.