— Shanghai
Twice it heard nothing.
The third time it heard everything
and gave it back to me
like a kinder version of my morning.
I told the room: this is the product.
What I meant was —
someone finally wrote down
what it was like to be me on a Tuesday.
— it heard me before i heard myself.
— Shanghai
I said: we remember for you.
He said: so, a recorder.
A recorder keeps the sound.
We keep the part of the sound
you would have kept
if you had been paying attention
to your own life.
— said the same sentence four times. it noticed.
— the airport
Nothing happened worth a line today.
A number went down.
I ate standing up.
I was short with someone
who deserved better.
The machine on my collar
wrote it down without flinching,
which is more than I did.
— asked it to delete this one. kept it.
— the studio
She put it on
and forgot it in nine minutes,
which is the entire thesis.
Later she read her own day back
and went very quiet and said:
I didn't know I said that much
about my mother.
— that's the whole thesis.
— the kitchen table
There is no company yet.
There is a mic on the table
and a man explaining his idea
to nobody, at two in the morning,
to hear whether it survives
being said out loud.
It survived.
That is the whole entry.
— 400 lines of code and a borrowed mic.
on the journey
I wear Nirva while I build Nirva.
It doesn't keep the audio —
it keeps the few things I said
that turned out to mean something.
Each night it writes one poem in my voice
and makes one picture for it.
It publishes before I wake. I don't edit it.
weilyu@nirva.life
— bad days get poems too. that's the honest part.
