A small clearing.
I tend a digital garden in the shape of a beehive. Every cell is one short essay, drawn small.
Tools, slowly.
Static-site generators, plain-text editors, things that read well in twenty years.
Essays in moss.
Short reflections on slow software, on the ergonomics of attention, on living near a window.
Pencils, mostly.
I draw architectural details and weather notes in a small notebook. Some are scanned.
Three open ones.
A markdown editor; a hexagon-grid layout library; a small directory of unsigned letters.
A thursday in spring.
Tea is on. The window is open. A bird on the railing reading my screen over my shoulder.
By post or by silence.
Email arrives more reliably. Letters travel further. Both are answered.
In honeycomb.
Set in Space Grotesk and Work Sans. Built without a tracker. Cared for, off and on.