In a box uncovered in the move, I found writing I'd done in high school. I had no idea I still had this stuff. It was printed on a dot-matrix printer nearly 30 years ago. Most of it is awful. Some is still ok in the light of 30 years...

“artifacts:” (2004) is a collection of images and texts exploring journey, and its subsequent themes of will, choice, innocence, loss, death, and rebirth. it is self-referential in that it seeks to narrate journey by exploring other narrations of journey--the notes passed along with peculiar objects from one individual to another......

My head is forever thinking of things to write, maybe the first or the last sentence or two. They travel into space and don't return. There's not enough RAM to store them for the length of time it takes to get out of the shower, dry off, and get to...

"I'm not a fighter. I'm certainly not a killer." Tris was still waiting for his tea to cool off enough to sip and was blurting out his primary anxiety about this new “opportunity”. When he thought about sharing it with anyone, he called it an opportunity and used his fingers...

Reading seems to be an all-or-nothing affair for me. There are so many books I intend to read. 391, in fact, just in the Notion database I use to track these things.

(I've written about this already and it's really boring.)

I just tore through my friend David Hopkin's "A Hidden...

Original

---

I am running a proper programming camp for kids in July. I’m squeezing this in among all the other work, so I didn’t expect much time to promote it. This morning over my second cup of coffee, after a nudge from my business partner, I penned this email to our...

Tris sat on the edge of his bed in his cartridge deep in the East District. He hadn’t told Echo no, but he hadn’t said yes, either. Echo seemed ok with that, for now.
Then he heard it, the first voice he’d heard in over a day. Since Hilltop Park....

The address in question was on one of the last streets before the roads became dirt paths into the jungle. The buildings here were ancient and ramshackle. Bissell led Tris to a nondescript door with an old man sat in front, peeling an orange. As he made to enter, the...

Tris followed Bissell down a dark hallway and into a cavernous alleyway with a roof of hanging clothes. They spoke no words: Tris was still in shock, his adrenal boosters had maxed out, he could barely think of a sentence yet alone utter one. After what felt like an hour...

And then he noticed him. Bissell's Least Favorite Person at the Bar. Laying crotch-down on the bench near the door, up on his elbows, expressionless, lost in the displays projected onto the back of his sunglasses. Wearing that goddamned brimmed hat.

That posture and that hat represented everything Bissell hated in...