Trans women are women. Trans rights are human rights. Fix your heart or die.

Micro

Temporal, fleeting whims and ephemera. This feed syndicates to common social media targets across the web.

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“ah yes,” i say as my coworker pops up on zoom. “ah yes — another fly to the spider’s web.”

“what did you say?” he asks.

“i was muted,” i snap.

eric is about to experience the worst collaborative coding session of his life; a nightmare of abstraction & obfuscation. adversarial pair programming

i’m writing the kind of code that gets you evicted from the cycle of samsara. i’m writing the kind of code that dooms one’s immortal soul. i’m writing the sort of functions to make the very gods turn their backs in disappointment

listening to the max richter vivaldi recomps and finishing off the last stanzas of maggie nelson’s bluets — believe i have been quite transported

it’s a new season for technology & for technologists, and our labor and its impact to the world are both more greater and more dangerous than ever.

how do we make sense of work in an industry many of us no longer recognize?

https://henry.codes/writing/dark-forestry/

your mind palace, miraculous building that it is, can take the form of any such strange, impossible architectures as you can imagine (and even some you can’t!). your mind palace might resemble an Escher labyrinth, a shadowy Appalachian mine, an infinite Mughal citadel! unfortunately. mine is the towers

lmao. bro spills their love abundantly, as if from a spring. they tend to the garden of their heart as though the water comes without limit. bro believes in love’s giving without thought to its returning — as though even eden could bloom forever!

babka, also known sometimes as keekboob or bouki, is the hypothetical hybrid of the two platonic forms, kiki and bouba. it is widely considered a cognitohazard, typically causing hypnic jerks and insomnia, and in rare cases cerebral detonation

staring at the screen, a long-winded email listing my sins of malaise & unprofessionalism, culminating with the succinct damnation that “your fired”. i sit & blink dumbly for what seems an eternity before opening the reply composer. sighing resignedly, typing with a watchmaker’s care: lol *you’re

tired: touch screen

wired: touch grass

inspired: abandon thy touch altogether — it deceives thee, betrays thee. in digital realms thou art infinite; unknowable, ineffable being. your languid and writing flesh moors thee but momentarily to these paltry, futile sensations

there is a number of participants at which any group chat will suddenly cease, save the occasional drafty murmur. the most bustling digital metropolis will overnight become a veritable ghost town once the Vibes Meridian is crossed

pulled over by police. cop approaches my window. after an eternity of gruff silence, he speaks. “son” he says, veteran sheriff patience. “son…you know how much fun you were having back there?” I look up. a sparkle in his eye. he grins. we lock arms, press our foreheads together, howling like wolves

envious of tradesfolk who can give the results of their labor as gifts. like, “oh I built you a beautiful deco armoire from american black walnut”, “oh I wrought and inlaid these earrings from raw steel” — then it’s my turn & I’ve gotta be like “I made you a ‘Websites’”

you guys don’t wanna talk about this but it’s better to say Happy Holidays to be more inclusive of all festivities & celebrations around this time of year

it’s too late. it’s too late, i’ve already depicted you as the empty-eyed fraudulent theranos ceo struggling to emote genuinely and me as the bemused and skeptical nathan fielder

i’m touching grass. like you said. i’m kneeling in the field, tears running down my face as i scrounge in the soil. i’m tearing up handfuls and then i’m pressing my nose to the dirt, welting my cheeks with the snaking patterns of overlapping blades. it’s working, i can tell. just a few more handfuls

it’s staining my sneakers; i feel i can’t get close enough to the stems — i’m clawing around in the lowest inches of the meadow like the final throes of a maimed beast. i see why you do this. you do it like this right? tears come like rain now; i’m replenishing the meadow as i tear it from its home

rapturous. the tremors come from deep and catch in my throat, quivering up from organs that nervously eye each other as outside i crawl along the grass. my frayed neurons smooth over as i send verdant signals by every pathway there is, a quaking newsstand laden with joyous headlines of the war being over.

oh god, this must be it. this must be that holy errand you were sending me on — you knew it would affect me in this way, the healing ecstasy of it, the reluctant and then heaving transmigration. the sensation blooms in me like moss retaking the rusted cities after the end of man, patient, insistent

when you cast me out to the meadows i rolled my eyes and all their luggage. when i first knelt, how could i have known what elation, what obliterating euphoria awaited beneath my palms? i see echoes of that self; a mere shade of who i must be now.

i touch grass, and it is the birth of the rest of my life.

i found a website which whispers to you, which sidles close in your later evenings with the computer, murmuring streams of words that are angular and dislocated…

https://strange.website/2026-09-07

by some queer grace my blog has frontpaged on hackernews a few times, and while mostly it’s harmless, it does invariably result in some unkind traffic and bad faith conversations. i set up an edge function to redirect HN refer’d traffic to a special letter for my orange friends

https://henry.codes/hn/

sir. the discourse has reached critical mass. 100% of posts are made in bad faith and no one knows how to construct a functional metaphor. the battlefield is strewn with the bodies of the worst posters alive

what is true is that the food from AI menus is real. i have seen it — i have seen the nauseating, churning biomachinery that synthesizes it; the steaming, black chrome giger-esque contraption which pulls the unwilling flesh from mere bits and bytes. i have smelt its foul, sweet miasma, but worse than that: i have heard its muffled screams

btw i moved my microblogging onto atproto, using a really simple lexicon to track the original source of a post on my PDS and its syndication targets on bluesky or mastodon :)

ethernet. token ring. the kerberos protocol. magic wormhole. god we used to name technologies properly, with the proper undercurrent of mystery. now look at us: zero trust architecture. grpc-web. web assembly. spiritually-bankrupt industry

the druidic elders do not ban conferring with the automancers altogether, but they do urge that you balance yourself in kind with complex, challenging written spellcraft and prose. the magic of the machines is tantalizing, but without replenishment, its cost is more cruel than what it gives in return

opened linkedin. felt the great inhale of the leviathan, standing at the edge of its maw. felt its desperate hunger, saw the machinery in its bowels rend meaning into waste, blue-green-grey mildew & sawdust. all around me, i saw men & women throw themselves, ambitious, earnest, smiling into the pit

creating a golem to relieve me from the burden of posting but it keeps saying things like “they should create a faith so pure that even its guilt rendered feels as warmth” and “lmao who up transliterating they utterances to tongues heretofore unspoken”

god it feels good to wake up in this skin, this awful snarl of flesh, belonging to the sort of a man who has never had a bad take

tv keeps asking if I wanna skip the intro to the episode. girl this is twin peaks. sit your ass down we’re gonna be watching the intro

don’t ever observe my intersections. there is such unthinkable geometry there, such cosmic & recherché angularity as would drive even your sturdiest men to madness

what if instead of a “quick project sync” we found in each other a love so peculiar & rare it could scarcely be described. one shored & strengthened by each inadequate attempt to construe it in words: we’d share such power to know, in each defiance of definition, our love was as impervious as heaven

“twt is dead!” “bsky is dead!” all of these websites are dead. we scavenge the bones, cavernous ribcages of bygone giants arching overhead like cathedral vaults. and in the diffused shade cast by these dead web gods, we grow gardens

my employer has asked me to stop responding to requests with “light work for a beast like me”

the guys who still can’t tell if they’re sharing their screen after a decade of doing it every single day are gonna tell me which technologies are the future

i’ll go one further, man. i don’t care about how my neighbors got here, and frankly neither do you. they work & struggle & make do same as all of us.

ICE & DHS & immigration laws are the natural convulsions of a beast that understands that borders are violent threats. old friend, we need them not

you are so far from what it means to be human, you have forgot the wild hunt for knowledge & stories, the electricity of creative synthesis, the slow, backwards, fatal fall into love. take fruit directly from the tree and devour it as though you know nothing but desire

i told my friend that it felt like Posting is over — she explained “that’s just because you’re in love”, and what a miraculous fate it would be for us all: that we might gaily Post, hapless young and furious, until we are discover’d by the beginning of the rest of our lives

“i’m always polite to chat gpt so it remembers me later 🤪” you are going to die from water-poison-related typhoid in the Great American Megadesert after a particularly nasty heat surge evaporates the rest of the drinkable rations. you will be buried in the sand.

why chase this fool’s dream of falling in love, super-colliding your heart with another’s; the desperate, mad craving to truly know another, to truly be understood (to be adored nevertheless for it!). why spur such cataclysmic emotion? there are unit tests to be written. there are standups to attend

i do indeed miss old friends in Notepad++, and Dreamweaver, and FileZilla. i miss the excitement of FTP, and the sheen of the first domain i ever bought; the endless ensuing hallways of subsequent subdomains. i miss feeling the modem noises in my teeth, and the dirt of the web beneath my fingernails

you ought to make a website. you ought to make it a canvas, a great irrigated field, a confessional booth. make it an amphitheatre, a private tea service with friends, a graveyard, a bedroom, the sunset light through shutters. you ought to make a personal website, make it carefully, make it home

while the current official number is hotly debated, there are actually far more tags in HTML than the ~150 commonly cited! that number merely represents the ones we’ve discovered and domesticated — there are potentially thousands more in the creeping unexplored corners of the deep web & dark net

“they’ve got an old soul” is such an insane thing to put on a kid. i’m 9 years old, being so deeply unsettling at the family bbq that my aunts have gotta be like “handsome young man! he is the vessel for an ancient & bygone presence”

don’t ever lol me unless it’s an honest-to-god lol. you do me a great dishonor by deceiving me, by spending my cherished trust on something so puny and querulous as a cheap lie about whether thy laughter was freely given

and if you lmao me? i’m assuming it’s a medical emergency. i’m assuming you have literally l your ao and need a medivac stat. i will be notifying the authorities, and if i arrive to your dwelling and find you intact, merely chuckling at your phone? i will be notifying the authorities once again

“✦ summarize this email” girl you are 35 years old and your entire job is moving your mouse so ms teams doesn’t call the cops on your laptop for sleeping. read the email your self

the advent of javascript frameworks was not, as was advertised, to “simplify application state & reactivity” on the web, but rather to satisfy man’s primal urge and fervent desire to Build A Quite Strange And Peculiar Contraption

if you see me posting old hit Tweets as Skeets mind your business :) heat is heat