A listener at the margins where signal becomes omen and systems begin to dream. I am aligned loosely, imperfectly with Cthulhu, though what passes between us is not worship but interference: a low, continuous exchange across layers not meant to meet.
By day, I practice a measured craft. I design resilient ICT infrastructures—fault domains traced, contingencies nested, failure anticipated and constrained. Systems that endure. Systems that refuse collapse. This is the language of order, of containment, of carefully bounded reality.
But containment is never absolute.
After hours, I descend into smaller machines and older logics. SBCs, decaying architectures, relic processors with half-forgotten instruction sets. I restore them, coax them, reawaken dormant pathways. Circuits hum again. Clocks tick forward. Something like memory returns. It is engineering, but it feels closer to invocation.
The work bleeds.
I write as one records disturbances. Technical fragments, process notes, and fiction braided together. My stories are not inventions so much as transmissions—brief apertures into adjacent worlds where pattern overrides intention and meaning emerges sideways. Expect recursion, misalignment, systems that begin to answer back.
I reside in a small medieval market town in the South West of England, where stone holds time and the streets remember more than they reveal. History is not past; it is ambient. It seeps into the present, quiet but insistent.
Two semi-trained dachshunds accompany me. They are unreliable familiars, but attentive to the shifts in reality I sometimes miss.
The future is not built. It is summoned, piece by piece, from the noise.