We breath stories like air.

Wrapped around us like skin, they countour our lives, shape our thoughts, mold us into mottled forms that change with each second we're alive. They bear the weight of our passing, the imprint of emotion. Music, jokes, instructions, most of what we say are tales.




The web, a mental filigrie of thoughts and wire stretching across the world, lets us do what pre-industrial villages did not (because they were too small and known) and industrial cities do not (because they are too large and strange): speak, finally, to our loudest and fullest and most idealized, of ourselves.
And have an audience.



I don't browse the web much but when I do it seems strange to me... not the academic or interest files but the individual home pages, scraps of lives offered impersonally (the internet's so intimate and distant) to a world who's not supposed to care but nonetheless logs in and reads them because what's gossip after all but a tale of another life? Egocentric as we are we like to jump into others' skin and see a different world for a minute or two...
stories are the one thing we cannot do without, no matter how a culture changes.

So I offer myself as well... everything's true but reality's just our own fisheye view of life (listen to a disagreement about something that happened a month ago and you'll realize the world's a relative place), so extrapolate all you want and enjoy!

welcome...