Every day—every single day—I learn that I am wrong about something I held to be true. Some bastard’s not such a bastard. Some plan’s not set in stone. Sometimes that stings more than it should, but the kicker comes at night, as sleep approaches. Wondering what I don’t yet know I’ve got completely wrong.
coordinate.systems
The shape of conversations — of annotations — of margins. Making notes. Who you can see. Who you can tune out. Making “extant” copies in digital artifacts. Myriad trails. Each unique to the visitor, but composed of the past actions of past visitors. A library. Doorways.