2026-06-25 12:00:00
Two weeks ago, I quietly pushed up a new look for this website. Some redesigns happen over a year or two; others happen over a few months. Neither one’s easy, mind you, but this one’s the latter.
A month or so back, I told an old friend I was in the middle of redesigning this little site. She laughed and said, “Again?!” Which, you know, extremely and completely fair! The last design went up in March of last year, giving it a little more than 15 months in the sun. I loved it when it went up, and I still do: there were some little flourishes that felt right at launch, and I’m proud of myself for figuring out how to build a few design elements that I honestly didn’t think I could build.
But in last few months, I couldn’t look at the site without seeing every rough edge: the uneven gaps that had crept into the design, the too-clever layouts that felt fragile, the long passages of text that never felt like they nailed the rhythm. And the boxes! My god, the boxes: for related articles, for newsletters, for books, for little autobiographical blurbs. Boxes for just about everything but thee and me.
This is all to say that I started this redesign to pare things back — way, way back — and try to find my way to something a little calmer. A little more open, maybe.
This is where I’ve landed. At least for now.
In addition to generally simplifying the design, I knew I wanted warmth. A lot more. The blues of the last design were feeling too cold, too distant. I started reaching for reds, for yellows and creams, for an anchoring earth tone or two. I’m sure the work I’d done redesigning You Deserve A Tech Union was still swirling around in my brain, but the warmer hues felt like a nice change after a year awash in deep, dark blues.
And the new design has a number of textures I quite like. Some of them are new, like the splashes of watercolor that bookend each page; the navigation has a little blending applied to it, which I think gives it a nice gold leaf-under-oil effect. But it’s not all new: for one, the map relief is still with us, in part because I can’t imagine this site without it. (It’s adapted from a relief map of a mountain near where I grew up.)
And I suppose the site’s typography continues that theme of blending old and new, mixing new faces in with familiar ones. Klim Type’s Untitled Sans is still tucked in around the edges, but I’ve pulled in General Type’s Cambon for headings and titles. For body text, I’ve brought back Black[Foundry]’s Vesterbro, which I used (and loved) in an earlier redesign.
When it came to figuring out what needed to live on my homepage, I started by looking around a bit. I love Naz’s homepage, as well as mandy’s brand new one; you won’t have to squint too hard to see the influence of their homepages’ structure on mine. I love how both Naz and mandy treat their homepages like the start of a branching forest path: there’s a brief introduction to the author, then a few links to recent entries, and then a few hand-picked favorites. And that felt right for my homepage. With that in place, I took all the biographical fooferaw I used to have there, and shunted it to a proper about page. And that division feels right: after all, that content’s about me, not the website.
And finally, and maybe most importantly, journal pages are much more open and calm than they used to be.
The site’s layouts have been dramatically simplified throughout, and journal entries are no exception. I’ve ended my dalliance with sidebars and three-up grids, instead reverting back to one single column of text. And at least right now, I quite like the more streamlined reading experience.
I will say I’m glad I finally got a chance to play with view transitions — shout out to Durgesh Rajubhai Pawar’s excellent tutorials — which I think add a lovely little effect in browsers that support them. They won’t show up if you, like me, use Firefox as your main browser, but browsers like Chrome, Edge, or Safari should work. (In my testing, they seem to work best in Chrome.)
There are a bunch other little details throughout the redesign that I’m proud of, but I’m aware that this post is already long enough.
If I’m honest, I struggled with this redesign. I’d spent the weeks prior to launch doing nothing but unglamorous finishing work: building new features, tidying up ancient templates in Eleventy, and fixing bugs. It’s about at this point that the self doubt settled in. I wondered if it was too spare, or maybe not spare enough. And as always seems to happen around this time, I wondered if the design was even any good. Why didn’t things feel easier? Shouldn’t they feel easy if this redesign was a step in the right direction?
(I swear, a personal site redesign never used to feel this challenging. But then, I used to be a lot younger; that probably has something to do with it.)
I’ll also say that a new kind of worry crept in this time, one I’d never dealt with before. Just this week The New Yorker wrote a piece on the emerging aesthetic of LLM-generated websites, which all seem to be settling into a smear of same-y markers: of “beige- and cream-colored backgrounds, rusty orange-hued accents, and large serif typefaces.” Naz even mentions he tackled his redesign in part to avoid that aesthetic, and here I was worrying I’d stepped directly in it. I love what I do, but I feel like I have to work hard — hard — to produce something I can be proud of. And I couldn’t stand the idea of a visitor looking at my work, and just assuming I’d pressed a button to make it happen. 1
My response to all this hand-wringing was an overwhelming desire to yeet. I launched the redesign, at least in part, to get it off my desk. And in what I’m sure future design historians will surely call a stunning display of timeliness and marketing savvy, I didn’t write about it anywhere until now. In that time, a little space has been helpful. I’ve been able to reconnect with the parts of the design I first loved, and just, like, enjoy looking at my website. The rough edges have even fallen away into the background. They’re still there, of course, but they feel less prominent, less sharp. They even feel like they have a little bit of promise, if that makes sense? They feel like future questions to explore — opportunities to refine, or to redesign.
In short, it feels good to have my worry stone back. I hope you like it, of course; I’m just happy to have it at a place where I like it. It feels a bit like coming home.
Thank you, as always, for reading.
That’s why I wrote an “AI” statement. I wanted to make clear that this site was — for better and for worse — made by me. (And as you might imagine, I’m upset I felt I even had to write this.) ↩︎
This has been “The house is valuable because it is the house.” a post from Ethan’s journal.
2026-06-15 12:00:00
Let’s review.
Token costs are rising. In response, Meta and Amazon have shut down their internal “artificial intelligence” leaderboards; Microsoft has pushed its employees toward Copilot, and away from Claude Code’s rising costs. Uber has already capped its usage of LLMs internally, setting a monthly cap for every employee’s token spending. All of this is happening against the backdrop of the biggest “AI” platforms still borrowing money against hypothetical future returns, and markets are becoming increasingly skittish over America’s big, all-encompassing bet on LLMs. And according to reports from NOTUS and Reuters, major “AI” providers are already having discussions with the United States government, in which they’re laying the groundwork for “too big to fail”-style bailouts.
This is all fine, of course. Totally fine, and great.
I’ve noted before that the so-called “AI” industry is not built on a sound financial foundation. 1 But in the last few weeks, it feels like new, even worse stress fractures have been racing across that foundation. And it’s been hard not to wonder what will happen next.
What will happen next?
I must admit I feel cursed by this stupid question. Why do we even ask it? I mean, look: my endocrine system is evolutionarily hardwired to worry about unseen threats. Something buried deep in my subconscious still thinks alpha predators lurk around every street corner, waiting to snack on my kidneys. “Something terrible is about to happen,” my hindbrain insists. “Look at the evidence before you. Anticipate. Prepare for the unseen danger,” it whines. “Shut up,” I hiss back, “I am basically a fancy typist with bad eyesight, there are no cheetahs lurking in the tall grass, I do not need this much cortisol.”
But professionally? Working in tech, we’re expected to care about this question. We’re supposed to have educated opinions about the future, to have some idea of what will happen next, all so that we can better plan for it. To design and build something that’ll last.
And I don’t know about you, but whenever I’ve been asked that question — “what’s going to happen next?” — it has changed its shape. When I first started talking about responsive design, I’d get asked to weigh in on the future of mobile, or what the then-explosive levels of device diversity might look like in a few years’ time. A few years after that, I started getting questions about automated website builders, and how they might change design.
I can’t see the future, but I can state a blindingly obvious thing. None of these are questions about technology. These are all questions about work: what it might look like in the future and, most importantly, whether or not the person asking will even have a place in that future. That’s the real question behind the question, and it’s always tinged with worry or fear. And now, with hundreds of thousands of tech workers having lost their jobs since ChatGPT was released, there are a lot more of us asking the question. All of us would very, very, very much like to know what happens next.
I have no answers here. But two things come to mind.
Here’s the first one.
What will happen next?
When I’m asked about where “AI” might be going, I don’t think about the terrifyingly large bubble that’s (possibly? probably? definitely?) about to pop; I don’t think of the careers, lives, and futures that will be upended by that “market correction”; I don’t think about the potential after a crash for these big, lumbering, literally-world-devouring centralized platforms to be replaced by smaller local models. 2 Instead, when I hear that question these days — what will happen next? — I think about William Gibson and plastics.
“And these guys were very common,” [Gibson] went on, taking down a small plastic spaceman: red, wearing an elaborately earmuffed helmet with an antenna on top. “These spacemen were dime-store toys at a time — which I can actually remember! — when cheap plastics were still weirdly novel. Like Gore-Tex or something. You’d ask, ‘What is it made of?’ ” He looked wistful, then thoughtful. “I’ve decided that one of the most significant things I ever saw in my life was the arrival of completely ubiquitous injection-molded plastics. I was certainly aware of them as the onset of something new. They cost practically nothing. But no one had any idea what a disaster we were all witnessing. Now the oceans are full of it.” He handed the spaceman to me. I hefted it, weightless, in my palm — an antique bit of misread future.
I’ve seen Gibson use this line in a few interviews. And when he does, he’s occasionally mentioned how he can browse through old photographs, and see all the toys he was raised on: crafted little objects made of cloth, wood, tin, even paper. But after a certain point, it’s like a switch gets flipped — and then he’s leafing through picture after picture of nothing but synthetic, injection-molded playthings.
I’ve been haunted by this story since the first time I read it. And it’s useful for me when I think about where we are now, and where we might go from here.
Just to be clear: I don’t think LLMs will be with us for long, at least not in their current form. But I do think that we’re living through a period of generational damage, one that will take years to repair, if not decades. For the last few years we have been watching a failed technology being deployed at scale: a technology built upon theft; upon inaccessible code; upon a flagrant disregard for work and for workers; upon ruinous environmental harms. After more than three years, “AI” has produced very little financial benefit outside of the largest companies hawking it. And in that time, after years of near-constant “AI” layoffs, I have heard and read so many accounts of people wondering if there’s still a place for them in the industry. 3 I personally have several friends who have already left the industry.
When I say the phrase “generational damage,” I mean it.
So, no: I don’t know precisely what will happen next. But I’ve come to realize the outcomes matter a lot less than the harms we’re watching unfold right now. Whether the bubble pops or doesn’t, I feel confident we’ll look back at the first few years of “artificial intelligence” much as Gibson does a toy astronaut: as a herald we ignored, as an antique bit of misread future.
Second thing. And it’s about the question itself.
What will happen next?
I’ve been thinking about this question, like, structurally. Isn’t the phrasing a bit…passive? No judgment intended at all here, mind. I’m just struck by the fact that it’s posed from a place of observation. The person asking the question is an onlooker, a spectator; they’re trying to anticipate how events in front of us might be unfolding, and guess where the river might flow next. And when we ask ourselves what might come next — for “AI,” for the industry, for the future of our work within both — I bet we could start asking another question.
Maybe it’s this one:
What do you want to happen next?
Halfway through my unions book, I sat down with Jacky about some of the organizing conversations he’d participated in.
We were talking about some brainstorming sessions he’d been in at both companies, in which he and his coworkers were dreaming up ideas for what they might include in [their union contract] — ideas people had thrown around for what their contracts could look like. Things like, “What if our parental leave policy lasted five years?” And: “Could our contract have mandated that 20 percent of every sprint was spent on tech debt?”
Alciné hastened to note that none of these proposals ever appeared at a bargaining table; they were just ideas that came up in brainstorming sessions. But that’s what I think is so valuable about the collective bargaining process, and the discussions around them: that these discussions are meant to be generative.
This was the common thread that ran through every single one of the interviews I conducted for the book. Amid layoffs, intimidation, the sheer difficulty of organizing, every person I spoke with touched on just how the process opened up new possibilities for them. A new future — and it was a future they wanted to fight for.
Amid all this talk about the inevitability of “AI”, I think it’s okay for us to ask what kind of future we want, and then move toward it together. And it’s already happening across the industry. ProPublica’s guild conducted a strike earlier this year, in part to win contract language that would prohibit layoffs resulting from “AI” adoption. UK workers at DeepMind, Google’s AI Research Lab, voted to unionize, in part to block usage of their employer’s models in military contracts. Thousands of tech workers in the University of California system voted to unionize, and gained the right to bargain over the use of “AI” tools in the workplace. DAIR has released a hub filled with resources for people looking to push back against “AI” and automation at work.
I think we can figure out our future together, right now. And as Mandy reminds us, it all starts with conversation. We have to talk with our friends, colleagues, and coworkers. We have to talk about our concerns, and what we wish were different. We have to map out how we’ll collectively instrument change in our workplaces, and in our industries.
I want to fix this industry. I want you to have a place in it. I want us to have a place in it. Maybe you do, too.
So, really: what do you want to happen next? I’ve got some ideas, but I’d love to hear yours.
As an aside: how is it that this McSweeney’s article went harder on the circular financing underpinning “AI” than, like, any other business publication in the last few years? Yes I’ll hold ↩︎
Well, I don’t just think about these things. ↩︎
Ky’s essay and Eric’s essay are just two examples I could name; I’ve read and heard dozens of other accounts just as moving. (And heartbreaking.) ↩︎
This has been “All tomorrow’s parties.” a post from Ethan’s journal.
2026-04-21 12:00:00
I’m giving a talk at next week’s Boston WordPress meetup! If you’re around on Monday night — that’s 27 April 2026, for you Julian calendar sickos — I hope you’ll be able to join us. I’ll be giving a short talk on design systems: how they’ve changed the way digital teams work, and how we might need to rethink them. It’s a fun talk, and I’m excited to be there.
I’ve been rehearsing the talk this week, and was struck by…well, how weird it felt to rehearse a talk. That’s when I realized that next week’s meetup will be the first in-person talk I’ve given since 2019. Twenty-nineteen! Seven entire years! An eternity ago. Public speaking used to be, like, a whole entire thing I used to do. And now it’s just…not. I’ve given plenty of remote talks since then, mind you. (And they’re still plenty of work!) But as much fun as a virtual event is, I’ve missed getting a chance to meet attendees, hear what they’re working on, and what they’re excited about.
A lot of this is due to a changing world. The amount of travel I did fell off sharply back in 2020, and my house acquired some new health concerns back in 2021 that’ve made it harder to attend public events amid an ongoing pandemic. And the industry hasn’t escaped unscathed, either: many of the conferences I used to speak at simply don’t exist anymore.
This is all to say that amid all that change — and my nerves — I’m so glad to see that local, community-focused events are still going strong. And I’m honored to be in the room at the next Boston WordPress meetup. I’ll be masked up, sure, and probably a little more rusty than I used to be. But if you’re able to come, I hope you’ll say hi. It’d be great to meet you.
This has been “Retour.” a post from Ethan’s journal.
2026-03-04 12:00:00
Amid everything happening right now, I read with great interest about the technologies used in planning our latest horrid war. According to The Wall Street Journal, Anthropic’s Claude was used in “intelligence assessments, target identification and simulating battle scenarios.” This was all happening in the midst of a lot of sturm and drang between Anthropic and the federal government, during which OpenAI inked a new deal with the United States military.
A few hours before reading all of this, I’d learned of the airstrike on a girls’ school in southern Iran, a bombing that killed nearly two hundred people. Many of those killed were students attending classes.
I don’t have the words to describe how I feel about this.
But I will say one thing.
I am on the record as saying “artificial intelligence” is a failed technology, and I stand by that assessment. These platforms do not work as advertised; features that use them are loathed by the public; they exact terrible mortgages against our future; and they likely wouldn’t even exist were it not for the staggering amounts of capital being poured into them.
It’s that last point I want to focus on for a moment. To put it mildly, the “AI” industry is not built on a sound foundation. Investors are spooked by the staggering amount of debt underpinning the industry’s obscene growth, especially since none of the flagship names care about profitability. And in their desperate search for capital to shore up their ballooning valuations, these companies have turned toward governments, and the nigh-infinite supply of tax dollars they possess. The largest “AI” providers are positively sprinting to enter into procurement agreements with governments — and, more specifically, with the parts of government responsible for violence and war.
Time and again, these organizations have contorted their corporate values to support that sprint. Sarah Shoker, a former lead of OpenAI’s geopolitics team, has written more eloquently than I could about the incoherent policies at these companies around “acceptable” military usage. She notes that OpenAI quietly deleted its outright ban on military usage back in 2024; she also notes that, according to some reporting by Bloomberg, OpenAI has recently agreed to contribute its models for a drone trial.
As it turns out, that “growth at any cost” mindset does have an incredibly high cost. Because what all this corporate flexibility means is that — in addition to all their other many failings — these “AI” platforms are machines of war and death. Anyone infuriated by the military-industrial complex should stop supporting them.
And I don’t just mean monetarily. It’s not lost on me that these commercial “AI” platforms improve by learning. Well, “learning” is too anthropomorphic a verb: these large language models analyze user input, and may be trained on the data we feed them. And as I’ve read about the opening days of this pointless, stupid, awful, horrifying war, I couldn’t help but think that the everyday use of these machines is quite literally enhancing them.
None of this is new, of course. Microsoft’s “AI” products were used by Israel’s military to surveil Palestinians; the 2018 Google Walkouts were driven in part by employees protesting Google’s machine learning contributions to drone strikes; during the height of the Vietnam War, tech workers were mobilizing against the industry’s embrace of defense contracts. But today, we cannot meaningfully separate the everyday use of “AI” platforms from their application in death and war. Imagine asking Northrop Grumman to summarize an email for you, or refactoring code with help from Boeing and Raytheon.
These tools, and the companies that manufacture them, have tremendous costs — to our labor, to our environment, to our futures. And as we’ve been seeing, those costs also include actual human lives.
This has been “Propellant.” a post from Ethan’s journal.
2026-01-19 12:00:00
We’d gotten a good three inches of snow overnight. Four? Not sure. Either way, the thing in the main was I’d gotten a late start on shoveling. I’d slept terribly last night, and still had my head submerged in a large mug of coffee when She began lacing her boots. By the time I trudged outside some thirty minutes later, She and one of our upstairs neighbors had already cleared the sidewalks. They’d started shoveling out the little driveway behind our building, so I set to alongside them.
I was delighted to learn that it was light work. Literally. Last night we’d watched big fluffy snowflakes trace easy, unhurried paths through the air, and the overnight temperature never got cold enough for anything to ice over. And when you’re responsible for clearing not one but two city sidewalks — living on a street corner! never again, I swear — you’ll take the wintertime wins where you can.
I was finishing up the shoveling when I saw an older woman was talking to me, a wide smile on her face, a lovely black dog sitting next to her.
I’d been listening to an audiobook, so I popped out one of my headphones. “Sorry, could you say that again?”
“Doesn’t look like it was too much of a workout,” she said.
“Oh! No, I’m so glad it didn’t freeze over. This stuff’s pretty fluffy, and easy to clear.” I gestured at her dog, now stretched out lazily next to her. “How was it walking around?”
How was it walking around? I assumed that question would be the beginning of the end of it: she’d tell me it wasn’t too bad, I’d say that’s great to hear, and she and her dog would continue down the street. A quick little one-two patter between neighbors who’ve never met, and wouldn’t ever see each other again.
Instead, the woman introduced me to her gorgeous collie, and how the poor thing had a number of mobility issues. Some joint and ligament issues had led to a series of surgeries, and while the pup had healed well, it made walking a bit of a challenge. “But she’s doing so great today,” she said. “We did hydrotherapy, and I think that made such a difference.”
And then more stories came. I learned she’s been in our town since the eighties — first as a renter, then when she and her husband moved into the house she still lives in. We chatted about how much change she’s seen in our little city; I shared how much change I’ve seen in the decade we’ve been here. I learned her sweet old collie had a brother, who passed away a year ago. I learned she lost her husband a few years back. Her children had moved out ages ago; it was just her and her dog.
Then she said, “I’ve got friends in Minneapolis.”
I paused. “I do, too. A few.”
For the first time, we fell silent. Just for a moment. I thought about my friends in their city; I thought about what the warmer months will bring to mine. I thought about the observer training I did last week.
And then she said, “One of my friends is worried about leaving the house right now. But their neighbors have offered to shop for them.”
“I’m glad,” I said. “I’m so happy to hear that, right now.”
“Yes,” she said. “I was, too.”
Toward the end of our chat, she told me her name; she asked me for mine, and I gave it. I wished her well as we waved goodbye, and her dog got to its feet. They walked down the street, letting the collie set the pace; I went inside to get some salt for our sidewalks. The trees all along our street were blanketed in snow, as though their branches were long, tentative fingers clutching delicate clouds, holding them aloft for us all to see.
A note of thanks to Fatimah Asghar — both for the poem I stumbled across today, and for the line I borrowed from it for this post’s title.
This has been “I find them on the street & shadow.” a post from Ethan’s journal.
2025-12-31 12:00:00
I’m trying to write some kind of post to close out 2025, and the words just won’t come. I should’ve started this post weeks ago. But every time I thought about sitting down to write, my brain kept glancing off the idea. Something about it felt entirely too big, too difficult. And now that I’ve finally, finally started typing, it still feels daunting: I am sitting in my living room, a slowly-cooling mug of coffee in my hands, as I stare at one of the sloppiest blog drafts I’ve started in a while.
I mean, how do you write about a year that’s felt so hard? On a personal level, I lost a very good job I loved; a couple months later, I buried a parent. And amid all of that, the national and global horrors raged. I have no idea how to make one of those things legible within a few hundred words, much less all of them.
Maybe that’s why I’m sitting here, cold coffee in hand, thinking about flowers and dead men.
I spent a good chunk of my final year of college studying elegiac poetry: poems of loss and mourning written for the dead. 1 My thesis advisor and I spent hours talking about their structure, and how frequently flowers were used — frequently and differently used, I should say. As metaphors, flowers are versatile: they can represent metamorphosis and transformation, or act as a not-so-subtle callback to “the flower of youth”; they can even just, well, be beautiful things, letting the author drape a dead friend in splendor.
They can also be a boundary. In “Lycidas,” John Milton memorializes a dead friend by, at least in part, naming an array of flowers — primrose, jasmine, violets, hyacinth, and many, many more — before casting each of them, in turn, around his friend’s tomb.
…
And every flower that sad embroidery wears;
Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed,
And daffadillies fill their cups with tears,
To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies.
Personally, I don’t think “Lycidas” is an especially good poem. But Milton’s sorrow for his dead friend is really evident throughout: there’s maybe more open emotion from Milton here than I’ve seen anywhere else in his writing. And maybe because of that raw, clear grief, the poem has passages that have haunted me in the best way possible — and this little litany of flowers is one of them. I love the idea that casting wreaths of flowers around a dead friend could be read as a protective measure from death. When you draw a boundary around something horrible, you can give it a shape; you can contain it.
I suppose that’s my path through this not-so-little post. This year was, in a word, relentless, sprawling, and tragic. And at the same time, some really beautiful flowers managed to grow; let’s you and I drape them around 2025’s shoulders.
The year began with planning a memorial service and mourning a lost job, but it also began with something I’m tremendously proud of: a redesign of my latest book, You Deserve a Tech Union, and its subsequent rerelease as a self-published title. I’ll be honest: I sometimes wish the arc for this book had been a little different since its release, but man am I delighted it’s still in the world, finding its way to people doing good work. And if you’ve read the book, or shared it with friends and coworkers, you’re part of the book’s quiet, ongoing success. So thank you, friend. Really.
I was hoping I’d get a few more years at 18F, but going back into independent practice has gone much better than I could’ve hoped. I’ve gotten a chance to work on meaningful, interesting projects with some tremendous clients, including the City of Boston. At the same time, I’m relearning how to talk about the work I do: I updated my portfolio for the first time in years, and wrote about how I approached the process. I’m also starting some new work in January that should keep me busy for the next few months, and I’m feeling incredibly grateful for that. (But hey: if you’d like to talk about working together, do get in touch!)
While I’m on the subject of meaningful work, I found no shortage of it volunteering over at Unbreaking. Back in June I wrote about why I joined the project, and why its work matters. Since then, there’s been a tremendous number of meaty design problems to think through, all while collaborating with some of the brightest, most hard-working people I’ve ever met. I know we won’t web design our way out of fascism. But I can’t tell you how good it feels to bring a few of my skills to support activism that matters.
Additionally, I’ve done some writing this year I’ve been incredibly proud of. A few of my favorite posts:
I remain dismayed by what’s currently happening in tech, and at the same time I’m incredibly inspired by the people fighting for a better vision of it; I want to write more about both of those things. On that front, I should note I’ve decided I want to write another book — a much longer one, if possible. But I’ll share more on that when I can.
That’s a lot of work-shaped stuff, I realize; there was plenty of good that happened that involved doing very little. As always, I got a tremendous amount of joy tinkering with this little website: adding better social media preview cards, or a linkblog. But I spent a considerable amount of time with my wife, with our two little cats, and with our dear friends. I went for long walks and runs in my city, and played plenty of video games. I read several books I’m still thinking about.
And whenever possible, I said hello to my favorite river.
I’ve always loved this time of year. But the hope and optimism I feel for what’s coming is tempered by the knowledge that there’s going to be a considerable amount of work next year, and more than a little hardship. Many didn’t make it out of this year; not everybody will make it out of the next one. But right here, in this moment, you and I are looking ahead together. So here’s to you and I, friend, and to pastures new.
I’m glad you’re here. Thank you, as always, for reading.
If your Cool Guy Detector suddenly exploded in a puff of white smoke, I sincerely apologize. ↩︎
This has been “Our frail thoughts.” a post from Ethan’s journal.