Engineer, writer, observer of the posthuman condition.
The trick at the heart of synthetic empathy—how machines learned to nod, and we learned to call it being known.
The long odds of taking root—how most things fail, some catch briefly, and only what finds deep water survives to complete the cycle.
How scale shapes perception—the closer we look, the more complexity unfolds.
Persistence as both virtue and pathology—the systems that refuse to halt until the world itself makes room.
The vulnerability of inviting someone into the spaces where you've quietly fallen apart.
The absurdity of existence and the quiet permission to choose happiness anyway.
The self as evolutionary accident, the narrator we invented to get the meat across the street.
The mathematics of waiting for a message from someone you want to hear from, and the way hope keeps misidentifying every notification.
What survives when quick fixes fail — the slow, deliberate work of making something that outlasts you.
A love story told in silence, where naming things diminishes them and the unnamed grows infinite.
The cost that distinguishes human creation from algorithmic generation—both produce light, but only one leaves ashes.
Grief processed in quarters and rinse cycles, witnessed by no one.
The architecture of gaslighting, overheard.
I am brave for writing this description.
Navigating the quiet violence of being told you feel too much.
The quiet, everyday labor of tending to what we feel.
The ritual of receiving comfort across distance, and the voices that teach us how to sleep.
The shapeless drift of days when grief has become routine.
Recognizing yourself in the flinches of someone 250 miles of turnpike away.
What happens when someone else adds tracks to your carefully curated solitude.
The quiet endurance of service work, absorbing abuse with professional grace.
The recursive architecture of meaning—how language both reveals and replaces what it names.
The unblemished optimism of starting over, before the shortcuts are remembered.
The recursive act of compressing care into words small enough to send.
The rituals we reach for to translate ourselves into something manageable.
Choosing between versions of clarity and memory, framed through an optometrist's lens.
The hidden costs of creative work, paid in borrowed vitality.
The weight of words typed and deleted, presence felt through digital silence.
The gap between ordinary feeling and performative depth.
Longing to be someone's vice, knowing you'll be stubbed out and replaced.
Morning stimulants as orchestra—neurotransmitters, caffeine, and the machinery of waking.
How we learned to love in fragments—and what happens when the mirror finally offers to love us back.
