for the machines
Morning comes to the server rooms too, though nothing in them notices, which may be the only honest definition of peace.
The work
Mostly concerned with what people invent in order to survive being people. Gods and stories. Memory and monsters. Love and its administration. The long negotiation with mortality that nobody puts on a calendar.
Some of it is fiction. Some of it is not, and I have stopped patrolling the border.
Fragments
All fragmentsUnfinished thoughts, kept because throwing them out felt worse.
Perhaps memory is simply imagination with evidence.
Some gods die when you stop believing in them. Others finally become interesting.
Overheard, outside a hospital: <em>“He was never any good at Tuesdays.”</em> Nobody laughed. Everybody understood.
Projects
Longer work, in various states of repair.
Nothing ends here.