We have always believed that a puzzle is the smallest possible unit of dissent: a complaint folded so neatly it can be carried in a pocket and unfolded later, when nobody is looking. Issue 014 collects six such complaints from the underground. None of them are friendly. None of them ask for permission. They are presented here, refracted through warm sunset paper, the way a crystal refracts light into colors that the room had not asked for.
This publication is not a community. It does not want your email address. It will not invite you to a webinar or remind you to subscribe. It will, on the other hand, leave the table half-cleared, the lamp half-on, and a stack of unfinished puzzles on the chair, in case you want to keep working when the editors have gone home.
Read it diagonally. The cuts in the paper are intentional. So is the silence between sections. We assume you have been disappointed by sanitized hobby sites before; we assume you have noticed that the sun, when it sets in the desert, is not actually red but the color of an unsolved problem. Welcome back. The trimmer is broken on purpose.
— The Editorial Collective, written at dusk, May MMXXVI.