Command-Z: You Are Here

If you’ve been here for the tech and AI posts (via No Code Camp or The Workflow), those may still come around. But I’m expanding this newsletter to include creative work — poetry, stories, and essays that don’t fit neatly into any category. Here’s the first.

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You quit the job to make soup at noon and think deeply about socks.
You bought freedom and it came with onboarding.

You wake to a sunbeam shaped like Bulbasaur.
You go back to sleep. You feel bad about that.
You dream of supermarket sushi in Helvetica Neue.

Later, you stare at a tree and wonder if it would perform better as a LinkedIn post.

You do yoga next to your phone.

Pigeon pose, pending notifications—
A light panic hums like refrigerator jazz.

You try to write something beautiful.
It comes out like: “How to Monetize Your Nervous System.”
You delete it, politely.

You eat toast. The toast reminds you of Nebraska.
Or capitalism.
Or both.

You find an old Airtable called Stillness Database.
It has one record, from 2019:
"Felt okay briefly in IKEA. Meatballs helped."
You rate it 5 stars.

You remember childhood. There were frogs.

You walk outside.
The clouds look like JPGs.
You say “wow” out loud.
There is no one. Just the clouds.
(And the Cloud™.)

You try to rest but it feels illegal.
You try to work but it feels like pretending.
You try to be but it feels like buffering.

Some part of you wants a cabin.
Another wants a VC-backed content flywheel.
Another wants a mid-tier Wikipedia page about algae blooms.

​​You eat three almonds and are suddenly full of dread.
You consider lightly committing arson.
Instead, you buy a candle. It smells like “focus.”

You build a second brain.
You misplace your first one.
You scroll past a baby dolphin and cry.
You scroll past your own reflection.
You don’t recognize the brand.
Warped in the bright/dull luminescence of a department store mirror.

You fall asleep to YouTube videos of failed bands from 2006.

You dream of a mossy cave
with the exact texture of Blockbuster carpet.
You dream of a job that doesn’t eat you.
You dream of your hands in the dirt and no one watching.
You dream of activation codes printed on oat milk cartons.

Then you wake up.

You scroll.
You forget.
You remember.
Something like the light touch of grass on your cheek.
Then you forget again.

You Google “how to feel alive without accomplishing anything.”
The results suggest kombucha.

You wonder if you’re real.

You open a new tab.