i came back to the city carrying an invisible basket filled with old goodbyes, unanswered questions, and all the things i never got to say. after growing used to accepting these cruel little truths, somewhere between blurred nights and drinking until i blacked out, i learned how to hold myself together, even when i no longer knew what i was holding on for.
in the autopsy
anyone who's ever known me when i'm in love knows how completely fucked up i can be. i have a habit of wanting love more than anything in the world and then having absolutely no idea what to do with it when it's mine.
in the machine
i'm sharing the original Apollo 11 source code, written for NASA's historic 1969 mission that landed the first humans on the moon. developed by teams at MIT, including one led by Margaret Hamilton, this software helped guide the spacecraft and kept critical operations running even when
in the machine
i had a boss named Dave. Dave loved AI. Dave also had opinions about how i was using AI. a lot of opinions. wrong model. no tools. no retrieval. no memory. no agent. no second agent supervising the first agent. Dave, i am trying to rename a file. i got
in the notebook
i don't think people realize how quickly i have changed over the years, mostly because from the outside it probably looked like reinvention. from where i stood, it often felt more like burial. there was the million-dollar baby Bailey whose ambitious lit up the building. she learned