I adore Moneyball—both the film and the concept itself. I relish delving into data and pondering visualisations. The prospect of analysing data to uncover talent that meets specific criteria at a lower cost for a higher return? Sign me up and take my money.

However, experience has taught me that when the Moneyball concept is applied universally, it often leads to standardised templates and a dilution of essence.

Let's begin with the game where it all started: baseball.

Undoubtedly, Moneyball has led to more efficient team-building and game strategies. Teams can now optimise their resources to maximise wins, much like corporations streamline operations to boost profits.

But at what cost?

The essence of the game—its unpredictability and moments of inexplicable magic—is eroding. We're witnessing longer games with less action, more strikeouts, and fewer balls in play. The average MLB game length has increased from 2 hours and 33 minutes in 1981 to 3 hours and 10 minutes in 2021—a 24% increase. Simultaneously, strikeouts per game have risen dramatically, from 5.8 per team per game in 1981 to 8.9 in 2021—a 53% increase. While games haven't necessarily become more “interesting,” they've become more similar, pattern-oriented, and tactical.

Moreover, this data-driven decision-making trend predominantly favours those with the resources to harness big data and sophisticated analytics. In Major League Baseball, the correlation between team payroll and winning percentage has strengthened in the analytics era, from 0.34 in 2000 to 0.47 in 2020.

Small players, indie outfits, and sudden upstarts are becoming irrelevant. The result is a kind of cultural inequality, mirroring the economic inequality prevalent in our society at large.

As ideas percolate, the commoditisation of entertainment spreads. What works for baseball is being tested on other forms of entertainment to boost the bottom line. Let's examine how Moneyball has affected a completely different genre: music.

In music, mixtapes and Sunday RJs have vanished. Algorithms and feeds now shape our playlists and influence production choices. Your listening habits are dissected at a chord structure level, leading to recommendations of compositions that follow the same structure ad nauseam. A study by the Music Machinery blog found that Spotify's recommendation algorithm tends to favour a small subset of already-popular artists, with the top 1% accounting for 90% of all streams. This concentration effect is further evidenced by the decreasing number of songwriters responsible for Billboard Hot 100 top 10 hits—from an average of 4.84 in 2000 to 3.65 in 2020—suggesting a narrowing of creative input.

A 2012 study analysing nearly half a million songs over five decades found decreasing diversity in pitch transitions, a key element of melodic complexity. The average dynamic range of popular music has decreased by about 50% since the 1970s, resulting in a more uniform, less nuanced sonic landscape.

Even more disturbing, 70% of today's “hit” songs share the same 4-chord structure.

The impact of Moneyball on musical diversity has been tangible, and it doesn't stop at music or baseball. It's permeating every aspect of our society. In the film industry, reliance on predictive models for box-office success has led to a notable shift in production strategies.

The 2010-2020 decade was dominated by a laundry list of Marvel and DC Comics sequels and prequels, as if no other ideas existed for big-budget films. The percentage of top-grossing films that were sequels, prequels, or remakes increased from 17% in 2000 to 80% in 2019. This trend towards “safe” choices is further reflected in the declining share of mid-budget films ($20-100 million) produced by major studios—down from 64% in 2000 to just 32% in 2019 (according to a study by Stephen Follows Film Data and Education).

Furthermore, data-driven decision-making has led to increasing homogenisation of film runtimes. A study of over 30,000 films released between 1910 and 2018, published in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, found that the standard deviation of film lengths has decreased significantly over time, particularly for major studio releases.

This convergence towards a “safe” runtime is indicative of the broader trend towards risk-averse, data-optimised content creation—a sanitised, dry-cleaned version of creativity.

The result is a cultural landscape increasingly resembling a monoculture: efficient and predictable, but ultimately boring and lacking vibrancy. While data-driven approaches are undoubtedly driving commercial successes, they are also raising difficult questions about long-term impacts on cultural diversity, artistic innovation, and the overall richness of our shared cultural experiences.

There's also the temporal aspect. The focus on immediate, measurable outcomes is shifting the discourse from long-term value creation. In economics, short-term thinking can lead to bubbles and crashes. In culture, quick hits and easy wins are sacrificing the development of enduring art and timeless sporting moments.

We're all being TikTok-ed into the challenge of the week.

Even globally popular games like football are becoming tired and jaded in their search for predictability.

In 2008, an unknown football coach named Pep Guardiola took on the coaching job at FC Barcelona and created the greatest symphony of art in world football.

Guardiola redefined the game's basics, but it was so good that everyone wanted to emulate it. In the last decade, virtually every club worldwide has created a blueprint built off that frame. Every club now employs inverted wingers, false 9's, and build-up play. Each major club has become a carbon copy of the others in their tactical interpretation of the game.

Guardiola's Manchester City has become the template of success for the top six teams in the Premier League, completely changing the way club football is played in England compared to the 2000s. Aspects like focus on ball retention have been blindly copied by all clubs, with the average possession for the top six Premier League teams increasing from 53.7% in the 2010/11 season to 59.2% in the 2020/21 season. According to Opta Sports, the number of long balls (passes over 35 yards) in the Premier League has decreased by 17% between the 2010/11 and 2020/21 seasons. Simultaneously, the average number of short passes per game has increased by 22% over the same period. This shift towards a more methodical, controlled style of play has come at the expense of the unpredictable, end-to-end action that many fans associate with the excitement of football.

Focus on specific measurable attributes has resulted in a convergence of player profiles, reflecting the prioritisation of ball-playing skills over traditional physical attributes.

The impact of this data-driven approach has also extended to goal-scoring patterns. The expected goals (xG) model, which calculates the probability of a shot resulting in a goal, has become a key metric in modern football. As a result, teams increasingly focus on creating high-probability shooting opportunities at the expense of spectacular long-range efforts. In the Premier League, the average distance of shots has decreased from 18.4 yards in the 2010/11 season to 16.8 yards in the 2020/21 season.

This optimisation has led to increased efficiency but at the cost of the game's unpredictability and excitement. The variance in the number of goals scored per game in the Premier League has decreased by 15% over the past decade, suggesting a trend towards more predictable outcomes. The game is becoming robotic.

Furthermore, the financial implications of this data-driven approach have widened the gap between the top clubs and the rest. Teams with the resources to implement sophisticated data analysis and recruitment have increasingly dominated. In the 2010/11 season, the points gap between the Premier League champions and the 10th placed team was 40 points. By 2020/21, this gap had increased to 52 points, indicating a growing competitive imbalance.

Guardiola's approach has undoubtedly been successful, but it has also contributed to a sanitised, geometrical, and homogenised football landscape. The beautiful game, once celebrated for its diversity of styles and unpredictability, is becoming a more uniform, slightly boring, more algorithmic affair.

And let's not even start on smartphones. The spectacularly uninteresting rectangular slab design, pioneered by the original iPhone in 2007, has become ubiquitous. According to a study by IDC, over 99% of smartphones shipped globally have this basic rectangular design. The homogenisation extends to screen sizes as well. In 2010, the average smartphone screen size was 3.2 inches. By 2020, this had increased to 6.4 inches, with a notable clustering around the 6-6.5 inch range. In terms of user interface, the grid of icons—another innovation popularised by the iPhone—has become the de facto standard across platforms. A study by UXmatters found that 95% of the top 100 mobile apps use a grid-based layout for their main interface. This uniformity, while familiar and efficient, has totally stifled any other UX discourse.

The homogenisation of app design has been equally striking. The rise of design systems and UI kits has led to a convergence in app aesthetics and functionality. According to a survey by UXPin, 70% of designers are using pre-made UI kits in their work, leading to a more uniform look across applications. This trend is further reinforced by platform design guidelines, such as Google's Material Design and Apple's Human Interface Guidelines, which, while ensuring consistency, have made every single app look the same.

It has become the age of the average—a monoculture of rectangles and infinite scrolls. This fixation on quantifiable metrics in cultural spheres is creating a world where everything is optimised but nothing is truly excellent.

Markets, left unchecked, don't always lead to optimal outcomes for society. The same is true for cultural marketplaces. We must be mindful of preserving the diversity, unpredictability, and human element that make sports, arts, and culture vital to our society.

However, it's important to note that resistance to this trend is emerging. Some baseball teams are rediscovering the value of human scouting alongside analytics. Independent musicians are finding new ways to connect directly with fans, bypassing algorithm-driven platforms. Filmmakers are experimenting with new formats and distribution models that prioritise artistic vision over predictable returns.

Rather than wholesale rejection or uncritical embrace of data-driven approaches, we need a more nuanced integration of analytics with human judgment and creativity. We need to develop newer metrics that capture the intangible values that make our culture rich and meaningful.

The challenge before us is to harness the power of data and analytics without being enslaved by them. Our cultural institutions, like our economic ones, have a duty to enrich human experiences, not merely optimise predefined metrics by preserving the irreplaceable elements of intuition, creativity, and serendipity.

Moneyball is great—needed, even. But not everything that counts can be counted, and not everything that can be counted, counts. We need to be mindful of this when applying it.

Went to a book event earlier. or whatever they’re called. a place where people gather to buy books i guess. my housemate wanted to go, and i wasnt interested in leaving the house, but i figured that maybe ill find a book ive been looking for. spoiler, i didnt find anything interesting if im being honest. there were people walking around with flowers, a lot of people actually, handing them to writers. i found that odd. flowers? really? what are we celebrating here? just read the damn book and fuck off. what difference does it make who wrote it? unless they’re writing for the attention, in which cas, by all means, bring them a whole garden, im sure they’lll apreciate that. anyway, i wasnt in a good mood to begin with, nor am i still. i slept rather late, had a headache most of the day, and with my injury i can hardly walk or move. my housemate and i decied to go to a thai restaurant afterwards. thought some food might improve the night. it didnt. there was a man sitting a couple of chairs in front of me, towards the back of the restaurant. it was practically empty. just him, my housemate, me and two waitresses. lovely. now, this man. what a character. i dont know how else to describe him except that he looked like a white american man who wouldnt need to pull an id to prove it. and i mean that in the most unfortunate sense possible. he kept loking at the waitresses in a rather peculiar way. not ordering anything, not asking for anything, just looking. every time one of them walked past, he’d turn his head and follow her with his eyes. a man so desperately committed to being noticed that hed forgotten he was in a restaurant. the waitresses looked uncomfortable. i noticed them smiling awkwardly at me whenever they walked back past my table, which was unfortunate for them because i wasnt interested in being part of whatever was happening there. eventually, i had enough. i got up and walked over to him and asked if he was planning on staying much longer. i wont get you bored with how it went but he didnt seem pleased. he paid and left afterwards. alright, problem solved. or so i thought. while i was busy paying attention to this mans pathetic existence, my housemate had been talking to me. quite a lot, actually. i hadnt heard most of it. didnt even realise they’d finished eating until afterwards. we argued on the way home. something about me not listening, being distracted and blah blahs whatever else. i dont remember every word of it. i was still annoyed, and probably wasnt making things any easier.

Maybe shes right, though. maybe i do argue a lot maybe i have a habit of turning every little disagreement into something bigger than it needs to be. i dont know. its not as tohugh i go out of my way to aruge with people. ir at least, id like to think i dont. i shouldve listenend. anyway, nothing seem to get any better.

Sincerely, Socially exhausted and unnecessarily argumentative.

A Visit: Remere & Alexis

The below passage contains light descriptions of blood and sickeningly flirtatious tomfoolery. Do take care.

Remere had spent the better part of a week preparing this ritual. Guests were not something they had frequently, save for The Groundskeeper, so conjuring lodging as they had originally planned was out of the question. It was much easier to attune their newfound guest to their dwelling instead, and allow them to come and go as they pleased. Not only was it more efficient, but it was less draining.

They had opted to meet with Alexis the same place they had run into one another prior, by the ruins that surrounded them when they had a scythe to their neck. Their only demand was that Alexis take their hand.

When they find Alexis again, he is restlessly pacing about the immediate area near the ruins, brows knit in deep contemplation. This time, he does not sport his usual armor and leathers, and instead wears a white shirt and black gilet, rosary framing the sharp planes of his chest. His signature scythe is likewise not present; then again, hunters are known to be able to summon their weapons at will, so perhaps he is not as vulnerable as he appears.

He consents readily to Rem’s offer to take their hand—not without a snide comment of “this relationship is moving rather fast, isn't it?” But then his fingers, skin warm to the touch, interlace with Remere’s. Once they appear near the glowing crystal, Alexis slips his hand free of Rem’s to step forward and casually examine the area.

In a blink of an eye they surfaced beside a towering red crystal, levitating above a golden basin containing a red liquid. The contents were left no mystery—the renowned Witch practiced dark magic, here.

Remere turns to Alexis, gloves having been discarded prior to their trip to reveal vein-like scars upon their person. They extend a clawed hand, the one unoccupied by a rose that was much an accessory as it was a comfort object, and wearily exhale. “Apologies. I was unable to arrange lodging, but this should suffice, instead. Will a pin-prick bother you?”

“Darling, I’ve been attacked by all manners of creatures,” he answers, finally glancing back toward Rem, practiced charm in his smile. “I hardly think such a thing would bother me at all.”

Remere says nothing in response to Alexis’ blatant flirtation. At least, not aloud. There’s something in their expression that shifts, a softness in their eyes and a raising of brows that is swiftly concealed by a clearing of their throat. Their mind ponders the warmth that lingers on their slightly cool skin, waiting for Alexis to orient themselves before they proceed.

“Lovely. You are about to be attacked by another.” They reach clinically for the hand that had just slipped away, pressing a pointed nail into Alexis' index finger to puncture the skin, and hold it above the pool. A drop was all they needed, and it glistened as it landed within.

Remere pauses for a moment, in contemplation.

What was the harm in sampling the goods, as it were?

They brush their hand along the wound, closing it with some manner of sorcery... and allowing the contents to smear upon their own finger, before they bring it to their lips to clean it. A pleased hum, musical and somewhat decadent. Definitely part of the ritual, and nothing more.

“Ground yourself and think of me, and you may come and go as you please. Think of leaving, and you shall return where you last were. Are you ready for the tour? Questions, concerns?”

Rem’s warning lands on ears connected to a skull devoid of rational thought on the best of days. Alexis does not perceive the remark—you are about to be attacked by another—as anything more than some manner of strange humor. There is only wordless obedience as Alexis permits Remere to claim his hand, his own comfortably and willingly relaxed in his companion's grasp.

Such cold hands, he thinks, but gives the observation no more consideration than that.

The sound that escapes him as claw pierces flesh is interesting, to put it simply. It’s something like an inhaled gasp, sharp and shaky, and it exhales into something like a muted whimper. Blue eyes avert from the sight, cheeks flush with color, and Alexis feels his heart thump insistently against his ribs for a moment. He shifts his gaze back just in time to catch his own essence ripple into the pool surrounding the crystal, and finds himself too transfixed by the morbid sight to notice Rem lick their own finger clean.

He feels his heart finally slow back to a languid pulse when Remere speaks. “Concerns? Well, you’ve already taken my blood for ritualistic witchcraft, so I don’t see what worse you could do.” The smirk that punctuates is reassurance that he's merely teasing. “Please, lead the way.”

“Ritualistic witchcraft? You make me sound so... gauche.” A frown, subtle though it may be. They don’t seem to notice any shift in Alexis’ heartbeat or otherwise, mind occupied as it was. “I merely invited you into my home, and gave you access to bypass the enchantments that prevent others from entering. The only blood in this pool is my own, and a drop of yours.”

They start walking out of the overgrown cemetery, slipping between the crystal, Alexis, and any headstones present. As they round a corner a silhouette can be seen maintaining the fuchsia bushes at the base of the house, clad in a hat that obstructed their features. They seemed more focused on making sure what bloomed there overtook the property more than trimming it in any capacity.

“Good day, Groundskeeper. Thank you for helping me with my composition last evening. Please rest soon, yes?” Remere’s words fall upon deaf ears, a disgruntled huff the only response they are granted. A soft laugh follows from the Witch’s lips.

“He came with the home, you see. Maintained it before I came here. Anything you might need, The Groundskeeper can help with.”

Patiently, Alexis waits for Rem to step forward first, and then he maneuvers carefully alongside headstones with many curious, unspoken questions of who slumbers beneath. Those don’t seem like the things one ought to ask about on a second meeting.

As they pass The Groundskeeper, Alexis offers a polite wave, acknowledging the figure with no indication of unease; whatever chill of death hangs around him falls just short of Alexis’ awareness. Perhaps getting subtly aroused by Rem drawing his blood a moment ago has dulled his senses. Besides that, something seems to suddenly draw his gaze as they begin to ascend the steps to Rem’s house.

Alexis pauses finally, squinting through the trees ahead. His head tilts as he closely analyzes the sight, and then he relaxes with a laugh. “Well, isn’t that something? It seems we’ve been neighbors all this time.” He nods toward the trees, lining the perimeters of their properties. “You see, just there ahead, there's a path cutting between the trees? That’s my cottage.”

Remere pauses, taking a moment to peek towards the trees separating his home from the neighboring cottage. Their expression shifts, and the rose they were holding flitters to the ground. They bring their hand to their forehead in exasperation.

“One week... of preparation, and you were my neighbor. I think I might like to die.” Nearby, The Groundskeeper barks a laugh before resuming their examination of the blooms surrounding the home.

There’s a small delay before Alexis follows. He idles with a raised brow and amused smirk at Remere’s theatrics, not to mention the laughter that resounds from The Groundskeeper just nearby. Alexis may not notice that he’s literally dead, but he can detect the subdued mockery toward Rem’s suffering. There’s something almost familial about it. Curious.

He promptly crouches to seize the forgotten rose before half-jogging up the steps behind Remere to enter the house.

Remere sighs, not unlike a tired maiden, before ascending the uneven stone stairs. The welcome mat at the foot of the door was certainly welcoming—‘something rotten lives here’ written in some manner of blackletter—as were the scratches upon the wood of the front door.

Upon entering, it became apparent the taste in attire certainly extended to their decor. To their left was a small ritual station, with candles and cauldron alike, and further within was ample space to lounge. Remere points towards the cabinet in the far left of something that resembles a kitchen table, without a designated area for meal preparation.

“I’ve all volumes of Encyclopedia Necromancia, should you need to access them, from Alchemy to Ancients through Zealotry to Zombies. Black to Blood Magic might be the most helpful for our shared quarry, but if you are seeking anything else... it is likely on my shelves. My study is currently being renovated, but I’ve plenty of resources here for your perusal. I’ve ample seating, a fire... The Groundskeeper sometimes lends his hand to play the harp nearby, if silence bothers you, but I also have a music box for when he is occupied.”

They do not at all mention the skull upon a pile of books behind them.

He gently pushes the door shut behind him as he steps forward and examines its casual extravagance; the eccentric ones dabbling in taboo magics always seem to secure the most lavish adornments, he notes with a touch of private bitterness.

Interesting how being tasked with slaying literal monsters leaves one moonlighting as a bard to get by.

For now, he shoves his idle jealousy aside and turns toward Rem, stepping a touch closer. His free hand seeks one of Rem’s to gently lift, and the rose is returned to its grasp. Alexis’ hands cup lightly around Rem’s for a brief moment before he moves to examine the books nearby. “You’re rather accommodating,” he comments, dragging a finger along the spine of one of the books. He glances back to Rem. “I have to wonder, Witch, what led you to such peculiar areas of study?”

Remere stills as the rose is returned to them, the warmth of Alexis’ hands upon their own. Their mind is frazzled once more by the contact, and they still in a manner not unlike that of a frightened deer.

They can’t help but smile as Alexis releases their hand, gazing upon the rose and fiddling with the petals momentarily. After a moment they move to place the rose on the nearby table, and then return to Alexis’ side. “I don't often have guests, but I am glad to be accommodating.”

The question is met with a moment of silence. “I... do not recall.” They answer, honestly for the first time. “Last I remember I was at a memorial, the next I was here. I imagine a ritual must have gone awry. The furniture seemed lived in, and it was all placed as I myself would have placed it, so I imagine I lived here prior. The Groundskeeper was more than willing to answer all my questions. He might be able to answer yours better than I.”

Remere does not delve further on the topic. “Do you need anything to drink while you browse? I’ve a well nearby. The water is clean and comes from a fresh source, I am told. Should it not be, I can purify it for you.”

“I see,” Alexis says simply in response to Rem’s lack of cohesive memory; it’s the first remark stated without any dryness to it. The understanding is genuine. No snide comment follows as he turns to face Remere, seemingly finished with his inspection of the books in their collection.

“Must be very delicate magic you work with, that you’d forget so much. Must leave you wondering to what end you were taking such a great risk?” Alexis is unsure if his own question is rhetorical; there’s curiosity, but he knows Rem likely has no answer to provide. “If The Groundskeeper has already answered all of your questions, then how might he tell me anything you have not already explained?”

The question of water is met with a small, dismissive wave, and blue eyes remain fixed on Remere. Clearly, Alexis is more interested in the topic at hand than any of his human needs.

The shrug that Remere offers in response is uncomfortable in its resignation.

“Perhaps, but I have learned to take precautions in the years that followed. I would not have become... famed, as you so aptly put it, if I did not learn from my mistakes.”

They move to seat themselves on the chair nearby, and blue phantom butterflies take the veil away and drape it over the couch nearby as if beckoned by an unseen command. “There are certain things he withholds, as per my instructions. I am sure he would be more than willing to accommodate a guest. I am not one to question my own judgement, even if I do not remember.”

Their hand drifts restlessly past the golden candelabra towards a half-finished composition. “Oh, I had almost forgotten. There is a volume on undead, as well as a separate volume containing information on the unholy. Should you abide by faith of any kind…” They drift off, not willing to comment again on how the rosary upon Alexis’ person proved to be decorative at best.

“It might be useful to you.”

There’s something almost naturally magnetic in the way Alexis casually turns to follow just behind Remere's steps. With a few short steps, he leans himself against the same chair, half seating himself against the back of it.

That look of deep thought settles into his features again, drawing an intensity to them that seems out of place given his sarcastic, almost indifferent demeanor. It seems, briefly, as though he might press Rem with more questions, but he finally shifts his attention at the mention of books of undead, and holy things, and whatever else they had said—oh, yes, another passive comment on his superficial expression of faith.

“I don't believe in anything,” he says very plainly, not apparently offended, but the flatness of the statement suggests there is nothing to elaborate, or perhaps he does not wish to be questioned further. There’s something about the topic that’s obviously sour to Alexis. A small smile follows, and his voice softens. “But it's beneficial to me that my colleagues think I do—and the things I’m meant to kill, besides.”

Remere does not shift as Alexis settles in closer to lean against their chair. There is a certain comfort in the proximity of another person, one that the Witch is not willing to take the time to analyze. The one thing they elect to is the steady beating of Alexis' heart, content and gentle in the way that it thrummed in his ears.

There is no judgment in the words that follow. It has no place to.

“We are of similar mind, then. As far as belief, or the lack thereof. I draw power from within. From my heart. Sometimes I take from others, but only as is necessary. Consent and autonomy are very important when it comes to practices like these.”

Their expressions shifts, brows furrowing in something akin to sadness. “Yes. I had almost forgotten. You folk feel you are ‘meant’ to kill. No matter. I hope what I have to offer here is... useful to you.”

Alexis frowns at Rem’s comment; in fact, he’s certain he actually feels mildly offended—not enough to warrant anger, or bitterness, or a sharp retort. If any feeling echoes in his words, it’s a faint sense of remorse.

“I don’t feel I’m ‘meant’ to kill. I never particularly asked for any of this.” He distracts himself with the rosary hanging from his neck, lifting a hand to restlessly fidget with it. Aside from that small detail, he’s otherwise calm as ever. “Change is... kind of a strange thing. I could just give up what I do entirely, but there’s a whole code to it. I’d be killed for treachery. I can’t do any good if I’m dead.”

There’s a pause as he lifts a finger to punctuate his next words. “But! Sometimes change for the better means willingness to compromise one’s own values here and there. I mean, you can find a fucked-up way to justify it to yourself.” He shrugs a shoulder and glances toward Rem. “If I tell myself I only kill the ‘bad’ monsters, then I can pretend I’m not just a murderer with a fancy title, yeah?”

Remere had anticipated disappointment, only to be meant with a profound sense of self-awareness. There’s a warmth that blossoms in their chest, a tingling in their fingers. They shift in their chair, turning to face Alexis with those doe-like eyes of theirs.

They cannot conceal their smile, enamored as they were by the answer. “How succinctly put. Your flexibility in your craft is admirable. I... regret that I doubted you. Pardon my judgment.” A carefully worded apology—habit given their regular visitation of the realms of the fae-folk.

They clasp their hands in their lap. “I would spare you of my curiosity, but…”

A golden plated fang, or the mimicry of one, bites at their lower lip. Its voice lowers in cadence, just a smidge. It was perhaps the first time Remere had decided to return Alexis’ flirtations since their meeting.

“...What do you consider ‘bad’?” Something glistens in their eyes. Witch, indeed.

Alexis smiles promptly at the question, the expression natural and honest; in fact, it’s evident he’s quite flustered, given the way color blossoms across his face to match him perfectly to Remere’s elegant scarlet decor.

He continues to fidget with his rosary, idly tapping the cross against his bottom lip. His position shifts a bit closer to his companion then, body turning more toward Rem as though that innocent, wide-eyed stare had enchanted him to draw nearer to his inevitable doom. His voice echoes to match the same cadence when he speaks.

“You wanna know the truth?” His next words follow with a purr, no pause left to let Rem answer. “We’re all bad. The problem isn’t being bad, just how many consider themselves above their nature. I, for one, am at peace with what I am.”

Remere looks up wordlessly at Alexis and blinks, equally in infatuation and admiration. They are just about to open their mouth to speak when the bell at the door rings, cutting through whatever words happened to be formulating inside of that pretty head of theirs.

Their crimson gazes fell upon the door, then back upon Alexis. An apologetic smile crosses their features before they speak. “Yes?”

The door opens, and The Groundskeeper invites themselves in with the tip of a hat towards their shared guest. “I believe I should take you up on your offer to rest. I do not see a crisis befalling the fuchsia for the foreseeable future.”

A pause, and then the tall figure’s lips curl upward into something of a lopsided smile. “That is, unless you were... engrossed in discussion?”

Remere, now flustered, stands upright, brushing invisible dirt from their skirt. “No, um. No. If you need the space to rest, you need the space to rest. It is quite alright.” They look up to Alexis. “Do you need me to see you off? I know you don’t live far from here.”

Such mesmerizing eyes they have, Alexis thinks as he and Rem seem to incline closer yet into one another's proximity. But then he jolts just the same when the doorbell resounds. The pleasant, heart-fluttering moment deflates with The Groundskeeper’s presence, but Alexis manages to find amusement in the idle misfortune. Soft laughter escapes him, and he presses knuckles lightly against his lips in a half-assed effort to smother the sound.

“No, no, I think I can manage the brief trip in one piece,” he says to Rem. It finally occurs to him to stand upright, that he was still leaning casually against the chair, inclined into Remere’s space rather intimately. He lightly clears his throat. “You’re likewise welcome by any time. Until then... sweet dreams, my dear Witch.” A wink follows before he turns to take his leave.

As he passes The Groundskeeper, there’s a fleeting pause. There it is finally; a chill ripples over him as Alexis brushes by. He stills too quickly for the hesitation to be readily apparent, playing it off with a polite nod of acknowledgement. “Rest well, Groundskeeper,” he says politely, before he pushes the door open and promptly departs, wandering on the path toward his cottage.

---

The above was conjured at my home in Lunamere, a realm of enchantment and mystery. Thank you for indulging us in a safe haven for queer and neurospicy writing shenanigans!

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Si une décision importante ne fait pas naître chez nous une envie évidente de prendre cette direction, alors il faut en prendre une différente.

Au départ, j’étais plutôt d’accord avec cette idée. Aujourd’hui, beaucoup moins.

Est-ce qu’on a toujours le choix ? Est-ce que l’évidence ne vient pas avec l’effort et la constance ?

Est-ce que l’amour vient avant la relation ou c’est la relation et les efforts que l’on met dans notre couple qui engendre l’amour.

Aujourd’hui, j’ai plutôt tendance à me dire que la vie ne me fera pas de cadeaux. Que j’ai fait le tour de beaucoup de choses, que ce soit au niveau des relations ou du côté pro. Et j’ai la presque la conviction aujourd’hui, que le bonheur au travail et dans une relation, cela se crée. Tous les jours. C’est faire le choix, conscient, de marcher sur la bonne voie malgré les difficultés, et les déceptions. Avec pour phare, mes convictions et mes valeurs.

Je pense que l’on se trompe tous.

Quelle génération errante... à la recherche d’on ne sait pas vraiment quoi, et d’on ne sait pas vraiment qui. Probablement parce que l’on a été biberonné, d’images, de concepts, qui ne n’auront nous nourrissent pas.

J’ai tendance à me dire aujourd’hui que c’est l’effort qui crée le beau en tout. L’effort sur soi d’abord, et l’effort dans notre capacité à faire ce qui est juste.

TOUT LE TEMPS.

Effort Is Schrödinger’s Cat

Before the box is opened, Schrödinger’s cat is neither alive nor dead; it exists in a suspended state of pure, unbearable potential.

Every meaningful human effort inhabits that exact dark room.

Consider the novelist at three in the morning, staring at a third revision that may never find a publisher; the founder wiring the last of her savings to cover Friday’s payroll; the composer scoring a movement no orchestra has agreed to play. While the work is underway, their labor is simultaneously a masterpiece and a ruin, a triumph and a waste. Nothing has collapsed into fact. There is no applause yet, no verdict, no autopsy—only the unverified act of pushing forward in the dark.

Society has no patience for the closed box. It wants the lid lifted; it wants to know if the cat is breathing so it knows whether to clap or walk away.

We build monuments to the finished artifact and burn the scaffolding that held it up.

Watch a glassblower at the furnace. His cheeks are hollowed, his forearms corded with strain, sweat evaporating before it can reach his jaw as he turns the blowpipe. The chandelier that will eventually hang in a quiet gallery will command a fortune, and critics will speak of its frozen grace.

Yet the true miracle happened in the violent, fragile seconds between breath and fire, when shapeless matter was forced to obey a human will—when the box was still shut, and the glass could just as easily have shattered on the stone floor.

Greatness does not live solely in the museum. It lives in the calloused palms of the quarrymen who hauled the marble for the Parthenon and died centuries before the roof was laid. It lives in the hundreds of canvases scraped raw and painted over before a single brushstroke of the Mona Lisa survived. It lives in the ships rotting at the bottom of the Atlantic that never found the coastline, yet proved to the ships that followed that the ocean could be crossed.

There is a weaver inside each of us, working a loom in the dark. From where we sit, tangled in the bobbins and the knots, we see only the frayed ends and the maddening slowness of the thread. Yet there is a quiet nobility in the tension on that thread—in showing up before the lid is lifted, when the pattern is invisible and there is no guarantee the fabric will hold.

It is not the artifact that defines us, after all, but the sum of our striving—one choice, one pass of the shuttle, one faithful hour inside the dark room at a time. When we finally step back from the loom, we may find that the tapestry was never the point.

We were the ones being woven.

There's a freedom in admitting we don't know. A liberation that comes with surrendering to ignorance. Far from being a void, this darkness of uncertainty is like a door, opening a dirt road into an unimagined forest. We're explorers again, our maps uncharted. To wake each morning not as experts, but as novices, our eyes wide, ready to be astonished by the world and our place in it.

We spin elaborate webs worrying about people’s perception, but truth is, most people are too entangled in their own lives. The banker's thoughts are a ledger of profit and loss; the nurse's mind, a triage of urgencies. Self-absorption isn't a flaw in human design, it is its very foundation. Once we truly embrace our insignificance to others, life becomes raw, real, and endlessly liberating.

Embracing our insignificance in others' lives frees us to say “yes.” It allows us to take a few blind leaps without risking everything. True, trust is a delicate balance, with the shadow of disappointment always hovering overhead. Yet rolling the dice on “yes” and occasionally stumbling still beats the safety of perpetual refusal. One moment of true magic over a lifetime of the mundane.

Uncertainty sparks our deepest passions. We're captivated by the enigmatic. That's why people lose sleep over love, and yawn at periodic tables. The allure of the unknown drives us to make art, chart space, and ponder existence in ways settled facts never will. It is where artists find their muse, and adventurers hear their siren call.

When we join forces, possibilities compound. Ideas collide, weaknesses are braced by another's strengths, and friction breeds invention. We don't just add notes together; we weave a symphony that’s greater than its parts. It breaks us out of the echo chamber of our own heads—and the quiet isolation that lives there.

Rushing through downtown to squeeze out another drop of productivity often means missing the texture that makes a day worth remembering. Giving ourselves permission to pause creates space for serendipity. Waiting often brings clearer skies, both literally and figuratively. A mouthful of sky and some sunshine on our shoulders. Sometimes, the wisest thing we can say is, “Just Do It... Tomorrow.”

Happiness is a ripple effect. When we are genuinely content, it spills over. Our smile becomes contagious, our energy quiet but unmistakable. We find we have more patience, deeper empathy, more to give. Tending to our own emotional life isn't selfish; it's the only way to sustain anyone else. Our joy becomes a gift we can actually afford to share.

The reasons we're given for rejection are usually polite fiction, invented to avoid confrontation. Beneath the excuse, rejection almost always comes down to someone else's insecurity or simple incompatibility—one person's view of what works for them, shaped by their own history and blind spots. Thankfully, we don't need universal approval. We only need one “yes” at a time: one employer to see our potential, one partner to love our quirks, one friend to value our company. Rejection isn't a verdict; it's just a mismatch of timing, circumstance, and taste.

In a world that idolises expertise, there's a quiet rebellion in accepting naiveté. When we silence our inner critic and step into things we have no talent for, we earn permission to fail spectacularly—and the rare thrill of trying something new without the weight of expectation. It unlocks a creativity unburdened by the need for excellence, and a sense of humour you simply can't survive life without.

We romanticise travel, curating picturesque cafes and cultural epiphanies while editing out the diarrhoea, lost luggage, endless queues, and pickpockets. That airbrushed version, fed by social pressure, hides what actually matters. The real joy of travel lives in the shared moments, not the destination itself. When we get honest about what we truly value in an experience, our choices finally start to feel like our own.

In the middle of an empty cafe, where the constant hum of traffic mingles with the chatter of countless lives, I sit hunched, my fingers curled in that hawkish pose over my keyboard, searching for words.

Do they fit, sound nice, or are they forced in their usage, bereft of any identity.

It is a Tuesday, or perhaps a Wednesday – the days always kind of blur together, unless you need to remember a specific. The coffee is a bit too hot and the chair a bit wobbly.

A pigeon lands on the windowsill, its feathers missing in patches. It cocking its head at me, one beady eye reflecting my own image back at me. In that moment we are kindred.I see myself clearly. The pigeon’s dream wasn’t the windowsill but here we are, Me, lost for words and the pigeon lost in flight.

Imperfect me, watching an imperfect pigeon on a imperfect windowsill in an imperfect café.

I have a recurring dream. In it, I am always in a forest. The trees are not uniform, but twisted and gnarled, each one unique in its imperfection. I walk amongst them, feeling the rough bark under my fingers, smelling the rich earth and decaying leaves.

I feel a sense of peace.

I see the crack on my kitchen tile and remember that memory of the day when little Yohaan had stumbled and fallen, only to stand up and try walking again. Strangely it’s no longer an eyesore, but a reminder of the day Yohaan took his first steps. The wrinkles around my sister’s eyes remind me of the map of our shared laughter. The messy scrawl of my own handwriting transforms into a testament to thoughts too eager to be contained by perfect penmanship.

I start a journal – not a careful, curated account of my days, but a wild, unrestrained outpouring of thoughts and ideas. I write about my mistakes, my fears, my moments of unexpected joy. I draw pictures with my non-dominant hand, revelling in the awkward lines and the unintended shapes that emerge.

I travel. Instead of carefully planning, I let destiny and others lead the way. We end up on a winding path I have never noticed before, discovering a small pond hidden behind a grove of trees. I hear the sounds of laughter somewhere afar and I stand there, my clothes spattered with mud, my hair mussed by the wind, feeling truly alive.

I often think of that pigeon on the windowsill, when we had too much time to kill. I imagine it soaring above the city, its imperfect wings carrying it to heights I have never dared to dream of. And slowly, day by day, I learn to spread my own wings.

There are still moments of doubt, of course. Days when the old perfectionism creeps back in, reminding me of my inadequacy and failure. Whispering in my ears. But I remember the texture of that gnarled tree and the sound of Yohaan’s uninhibited laughter and it’s doesn’t feel as bad.

As the seasons change, so do I. I become less brittle, more flexible. I learn to bend without breaking, to adapt without losing myself. I begin to see the beauty in the unexpected, wisdom in my mistakes, and strength in my vulnerability.

Unlearning perfection becomes cathartic. It is not an easy path. It is a path of discovery, of authenticity, of true connection – with my own self and with others. And I learn to cherish it.

We are not flawless statues to be admired from afar. We are living, breathing, imperfect beings, each with our own unique cracks and flaws. And it is through these very imperfections that our inner light shines the brightest.

So make some mistakes. Take some wrong turns. Sing some off-key tunes and wear some mismatched socks. Let your laughter be too loud and your dreams too big.

And who knows, one day, you'll find yourself in a small café, watching a pigeon on a windowsill, and you'll smile, knowing that you too have learned to fly with your perfectly imperfect wings.

I work from home now. Whenever I see the talkative collaborators getting enthusiastic about working (on a Saturday no less) and figuring things out for a corporation that only cares about profits, I have a visceral reaction and recoil from embarrassment. That may sound dramatic and don’t worry, it definitely is, but what’s more dramatic to me is how hard they willingly go above and beyond their pay grade. That used to be me from my early to mid twenties. That mentality I held is long gone now that I’m in my late twenties, and trust me when I say there is no going back.

I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with liking your job and wanting to do the best you can; to each their own, it doesn’t affect me how you want to go about your workdays. I think it more-so has to do with the fact that I’ve experienced this all when I was much younger, trying to find where my place was in all of this. I realized the agenda does not serve me, the employed, it serves the small percent at the very top trying to make as much profit as possible while supplying the workers with the absolute bare minimum. Anything more than the minimum most certainly deems that the employee costs more than they’re worth to keep. And we all know how much companies love to jump at the opportunity to hire anyone they can pay less and offer even less benefits to.

I’m the disillusioned Zillenial the Boomers warned you about; be wary and stay vigilant if you choose to continue reading. You might get triggered by the laziness practically oozing out of my words. You may be thinking: “Young people don’t want to work anymore! Get a job, get a life, and stop complaining. That’s how life is, deal with it.”

Did you know there are actually a plethora of possibilities in life, all of which are accessible to anyone at anytime, if only they open their hearts and minds to more than what was sold to them since birth? I can’t speak for the rest of the world, but in the United States, if you weren’t born with a silver spoon in your mouth, you’re immediately fucked. It makes crawling your way out of corporate or blue collar infinitely more difficult. You have to know someone that knows someone that can hopefully get you into the right rooms with the right people. While this certainly works and is the entire basis of successful networking, this isn’t exactly easy for everyone, especially for someone that’s neurodivergent. Again, this is not to say neurodivergent people are not capable of networking and masking successfully their whole lives to push through a job for money, but that’s not a way to live for anyone, any human being, regardless of neurodivergency.

When I was younger my father always told me to try my best to work for myself, that I don’t want to work for other people forever, the goal is to have them work for you. I understood what he was saying, and I carried that with me through all of my jobs. I agreed with him; I hated the idea of working for someone the rest of my life. I worked fast food, I worked retail, I even joined and served the military for 6 years in the field of healthcare. Now I work from home helping the healthcare field, which I genuinely enjoyed at first, but that went downhill as quickly as I expected.

I am capable of a lot of things. I have gone through adversity after adversity, pushing through it all with blood sweat and tears to come out the other side stronger than I was before. That’s normal for me. I was built to withstand immense amounts of pressure, to alchemize and integrate my lessons so I don’t make the same mistakes that keep leading me down a path of no return from a corporate hellscape and a negative attitude toward life. I’m not the only one built for this: you are too! Everyone has it within them to face adversity and have it change them for the better. It’s allowing the change, and allowing the adversity to work through you without losing yourself that takes effort. It’s effort well spent if you ask me, and truly priceless when it comes to growing as a human with the best intentions for themselves, their family, and their community.

It’s time for everyone to think outside of the box. Stay in corporate, stay in blue collar, because whatever is working for you is working and I would never tell anyone to do something different in their lives because that’s simply not my place. What I am saying, however, is there is more to this life than working day in and day out. “We need money to enjoy our lives, to take vacations so we can rest and return ready to work again.”

Have you ever thought of doing what you love instead? Seriously, forget about a normal job for just two seconds. What would you be doing right now if you didn’t have to work a job? Would you pour into yourself, your hobbies, your talents? While doing that, don’t you think life is on your side rooting for you? Don’t you think if you focus on following your joy and passions that opportunities for money for your talents will find you? How would you know if you never tried? How would you know if you gave up too soon?

I’m just a disillusioned Zillenial. No one needs to listen to me, I’m full of it. But… what if we lived for ourselves? For each other and our community? All food for thought, and honestly, I feed on it every single day. I’ll be making it big because I believe in myself when no one else does, or maybe ever will. Prove them wrong, too. Everyone can live a life without the normal 9 to 5. It sounds scary and impossible but it’s only impossible if you don’t even try. It’s my life to live and I’m doing whatever it takes to shine as brightly as I can for myself, for my family, for my friends and my community. I want others to see that they can do the same for themselves. We are all one and the same, we are human beings on this planet meant for greatness in life, not a dull rut in the ground doing the same thing over and over and over again just to make money. We are the money, we are the assets. We are more valuable doing what we love and are passionate about than wasting our time on corporations that don’t care for us in the slightest.

Una giornata allo sportello AMT può rivelarsi un interessante esercizio di antropologia urbana. Si entra per chiedere un’informazione e si esce con un’identità collettiva che nessuno aveva richiesto. Tra un “neger” e un “maranza”, il miracolo della classificazione è compiuto, siamo una comunità MSNA. Non importa che si abbiano storie, provenienze, lingue e vite differenti, basta non assomigliare abbastanza a chi sta dall’altra parte del vetro. La gentilezza è quella arcigna di chi considera ogni domanda un’invasione di campo, la pazienza, invece, quella di Giobbe, da parte di chi aspetta.

Perché “questi qui” vengono qui a chiedere.

Un comportamento sospetto, soprattutto se praticato in uno sportello informazioni, dove si suppone che qualcuno venga pagato proprio per ascoltare, spiegare e, nei casi più fortunati, perfino informare. È il modus dei “burocrati del disprezzo” cui non occorre nemmeno negare un diritto per far sentire qualcuno fuori posto. Basta un tono, uno sguardo, una parola pronunciata con sufficiente fastidio. Siamo a Genova. La città di porto, degli incontri, delle contaminazioni. Quella che ama raccontarsi aperta al mondo, abituata da secoli a vedere arrivare persone da ogni dove. La città che abbraccia come le sue montagne, ma dimentica di raccontare quanta salita ci sia prima di raggiungere quell’abbraccio. Una salita che si fa particolarmente ripida quando il nome sul documento non è facile da leggere. Perché il problema, alla fine, non è la difficoltà di pronunciare un nome straniero. È la facilità con cui si decide che non valga nemmeno la pena provarci.

College Football Saturday.

Today's game of choice in the Roscoe-verse has the (8-1) IU Hoosiers football team (ranked #9 nationally) hosting the (7-2) USC Trojans (ranked #18 nationally). With its scheduled start time of 2:30 PM CT, this game should fit very nicely into my day's agenda.

GO HOOSIERS!

And the adventure continues.

Catatan Umum Tentang RTP

RTP adalah persentase pengembalian teoretis dalam jangka panjang. Angka ini tidak menjamin hasil per sesi karena setiap putaran berdiri sendiri secara statistik. Volatilitas menentukan seberapa liar naik-turunnya saldo.

Pemain yang disiplin menetapkan batas kalah sebelum mulai.

Hello walking in the sun it feels warmer than it is, and the snow brightens the earth and the air is crisp

In listening to Kamelot album: the black halo: one of my favourite albums, without a single bad track. The time was right again for me to listen to this.

I think this snippet is a good one I think on the loneliness of death which nonetheless is a shared, universal experience:

When your time has come  You know you'll be lonely once again  And the final winter comes to us all  Life is treacherous  But you're not the only who must pretend

Fits my mood just fine!

I love this life sometimes.