I came back to the internet recently after a long absence. Long enough that I’d forgotten what it feels like to arrive somewhere already mid-conversation, the volume already turned up, the incentives already set.

It’s 02:17. The building is asleep, but the fans aren’t. Somewhere between uptime reports and the smell of burning dust, I realized this is the only kind of silence I actually trust. The kind that hums gently.

Every so often I sit down to write and realize I’ve accidentally invented a new form of performance art: staring at a blinking cursor for twenty minutes while coming up with increasingly implausible excuses not to type.

I am not a brand. I am a weather pattern.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about how much of what we consider “essential” is actually just background noise. Not the literal hum of ervers or routers (the hum is real), but the expectations, the notifications, the ritualized responses that fill our days.

I lost one of my Pis this week.

People worry about privacy, but not in the Edward Snowden sense. It’s not classified files or encrypted blackmail that keeps most folks up at night. it’s more mundane than that.

I’ve been thinking about keyboards lately.

There’s a kind of honesty in a browser window. Now the history - no one’s that brave - but in the present. The open tabs. The ones you haven’t closed. The ones you can’t.

I’ve been thinking about gravity lately.

I burnt out on all things internet in late 2020… I’m still not sure that it’s safe to come back yet, but I’ve always loved writing. Maybe this will be good.