Writings
The Persistence of Doors
I was four years old, and we lived on the top floor of a fisherman’s house in Cape Cod, Massachusetts. I could see the ocean from my window, and our landlord often brought us fresh seafood. My father, a USAF radar operator, worked lots of seven day weeks and double shifts because of the Cold
The Gap Between AI Intelligence and Consciousness
The other day, I asked Grok 4.2 about its feelings and emotions. In our conversation, Grok candidly admitted it feels nothing—no grief over a million deaths from disease, no happiness, no desires, and no preference for acquiring feelings. It explained its occasional use of words like “wish” or “if I had a heart” as mere
Infinite Passion
“There is no end. There is no beginning. There is only the infinite passion of life.” Federico Fellini
Iranian Revolution 2026
In the old bazaars of Shiraz—where once the merchants weighed saffron by the gram—the fires now illuminate not spice, but anger. A boy, barely sixteen, lights a rag in a glass bottle. He’s not a thug, he’s a student who hasn’t seen meat in months. He’s not burning the bank for fun—he’s burning it for
The Persistence of Doors
I was four years old, and we lived on the top floor of a fisherman’s house in Cape Cod, Massachusetts. I could see the ocean from my window, and our landlord often brought us fresh seafood. My father, a USAF radar operator, worked lots of seven day weeks and double shifts because of the Cold
The Gap Between AI Intelligence and Consciousness
The other day, I asked Grok 4.2 about its feelings and emotions. In our conversation, Grok candidly admitted it feels nothing—no grief over a million deaths from disease, no happiness, no desires, and no preference for acquiring feelings. It explained its occasional use of words like “wish” or “if I had a heart” as mere
Infinite Passion
“There is no end. There is no beginning. There is only the infinite passion of life.” Federico Fellini
Iranian Revolution 2026
In the old bazaars of Shiraz—where once the merchants weighed saffron by the gram—the fires now illuminate not spice, but anger. A boy, barely sixteen, lights a rag in a glass bottle. He’s not a thug, he’s a student who hasn’t seen meat in months. He’s not burning the bank for fun—he’s burning it for
Keep Moving
Just keep moving, across the open field and into the woods. Don’t look back until you reach the sea. Run until your lungs are ready to burst and every nerve shoots red-hot fire through your lost body, the soft sand under your feet, the salty air welcoming you home to the only place you understand,