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If you look at the left and right side of your keyboard, you will notice a key that allows you to type a single capital letter, and alternate between the use of numbers and symbols. Shift is a modifier key. To shift is to change position, emphasis, direction, or focus. To move (something), perhaps from discomfort or nervousness. To be evasive or indirect. To exchange or replace by another. To work a shift or to shift gears.

This publication consists of eleven pieces of writing that shift in language, perception, form, location, and in time.

Shift is a collective publication designed and developed by EKA students specifically to exist on the web. Through hands-on editing, coding, readings, and discussions, the authors of the publication looked at examples of poetic and experimental webzines to gain an understanding of the history and context for digital publications, and explore the parameters of the web as a medium for publishing (as well as how to subvert them).

This course was facilitated by Julia Novitch and Meg Miller and took place over Zoom and in-person with two full-day workshops at the Estonian Academy of Arts (Master in Graphic Design) in November 2022.

Edited, designed, developed and distributed by: Alexandra Margetic, Carlo Canún, Epp Vislapuu, Greta Þorkelsdóttir, Haeun Kim, Mark Foss, Michael Fowler, Oliver Long, Patrick Zavadskis, Rita Davis, and Tex Tehan.

Means to disappear
Rita Davis

The moment I decided to float in the hottest pool in Kalevspa (in Tallinn, Estonia), a deathly BANG caused a tremor in my ears. For a couple of seconds I was sure that a bomb had crashed into the roof and my death was imminent. Completely alone and without translation. Indecipherable. I wonder how the news would reach other people’s ears: “She died in the pool, but she didn’t drown.” Right after I came back to the surface, the old man swimming next to me smiled, satisfied, with the pool’s whirlpool running at high intensity.

I keep thinking about death without translation. What would it be like to die in Estonian? In Estonian, surma means that someone has passed away. If you hide the r, it becomes suma, which in Portuguese means to disappear. I disappear before I even exist. The bomb didn’t fall on my head and I still stand as flesh and bone, wet, but despite this fact, I don’t really exist here. I look at the baby swimming next to me and we dive in sync. He looks at people like me, curious, trying to connect the sounds to the gestures like a puzzle. Since we cannot trust our ears, we hear the voices as if it was a symphony.

The baby and I exist as two bodies that occupy the space in silence. Staggering floating bodies. He’s the one who understands me the most in this pool. We dive in sync once more. Underwater I remember that sometimes I pretend to exist in Estonian. A week ago, in a taxi, I made use of my social tricks — which include complex head movements, a subtle sequence of exercises with my eyebrow and many onomatopoeias. All this added to the four words from my Estonian repertoire: tere, aitäh, jah and ei. For 12 minutes I was someone else in a language that is not mine. But as soon as I got out of the car I died again. This time my death is not as loud as a BANG, but rather quiet and slow.

I return to the surface. The baby is being carried away in his mother’s arms. We look at each other one last time — we remain silent. My cells are dissolving in the water like a small bag of tea and the water is either too hot or too cold, I can’t distinguish. If the bomb drops now, we will die as accomplices, accepting the silence that is also part of the symphony.

Hetkel, kui otsustasin Kalevspa (Tallinnas) kõige kuumemas basseinis ujuda, tekitas kõrvades surmane BANG. Paar sekundit olin kindel, et katusele on kukkunud pomm ja minu surm on kohe-kohe. Täiesti üksi ja ilma tõlketa. Arusaamatu. Huvitav, kuidas see uudis teiste inimeste kõrvu jõuab: “Ta suri basseinis, aga ta ei uppunud”. Kohe pärast seda, kui ma tagasi pinnale jõudsin, naeratas mu kõrval ujuv vanamees rahulolevalt, basseini keeris töötab suure intensiivsusega.

Ma mõtlen jätkuvalt surma peale ilma tõlkimata. Mis oleks eesti keeles surra? Surma tähendab eesti keeles seda, et keegi on surnud. Kui peita r, saab sellest suma, mis portugali keeles tähendab kaduma. Ma kaon enne, kui ma üldse eksisteerin. Pomm ei kukkunud mulle pähe ja ma seisan ikka veel lihast ja luust, märjana, aga sellest hoolimata ei ole ma siin tegelikult olemas. Vaatan enda kõrval ujuvat last ja me sukeldume sünkroonis. Ta vaatab inimesi nagu mina, uudishimulikult, püüdes hääli ja žeste nagu mõistatust ühendada. Kuna me ei saa oma kõrvu usaldada, kuulame hääli nagu sümfooniat. Me vaatame teineteist kaastundlikult.

Laps ja mina eksisteerime kahe kehana, mis hõivavad ruumi vaikuses. Tardunud hõljuvad kehad. Ta on see, kes mõistab mind selles basseinis kõige paremini. Me sukeldume veel kord sünkroonis. Vee all meenub mulle, et mõnikord teesklen ma, et eksisteerin eesti keeles. Nädal tagasi, taksos, kasutasin oma sotsiaalseid trikke - mille hulka kuuluvad keerulised pealiigutused, peen harjutuste jada kulmudega ja palju onomatopoeetikat. Kõik see lisandus minu eesti keele repertuaari neljale sõnale: tere, aitäh, jah ja ei. Kaheteistkümne minuti jooksul olin keegi teine keeles, mis ei ole minu oma. Aga niipea, kui ma autost välja astusin, surin jälle. Seekord ei ole mu surm mitte nii vali kui BANG, vaid pigem vaikselt ja aeglaselt.

Ma naasen pinnale. Beebi kantakse ema süles minema. Me vaatame teineteisele viimast korda otsa - me jääme vait. Mu rakud lahustuvad vees - mis on kas liiga kuum või liiga külm, ma ei suuda eristada - nagu väike teekott. Ja kui pomm nüüd kukub, sureme me kaasosalistena, leppides vaikimisega, mis on samuti osa sümfooniast.

No momento em que decidi deixar meu corpo boiar na piscina mais quente, um enorme BANG, seguido de um tremor, ressoou no meu ouvido, dentro d’água. Por dois segundos tive a certeza de que uma bomba havia atingido o Kalevspa e ali mesmo eu morreria. Sozinha e sem tradução. Indecifrável. Fiquei pensando em como a notícia chegaria aos ouvidos alheios: ela morreu na piscina, mas não afogada. Eu quase morri de susto. Passado os dois segundos de terror, o homem que nadava ao meu lado sorriu, satisfeito, com a hidromassagem da piscina ligada.

Continuo pensando na morte sem tradução. Como seria morrer em estoniano? Morrer, em estoniano, é surma. Se você esconder o r, vira suma, que em português significa desapareça. Eu desapareceria mesmo antes de existir. Eu não existo em estoniano. Mesmo que a bomba não tenha caído, e eu tenha permanecido aqui em sangue, carne e osso, eu desapareci. Sou como o bebê que nada ao meu lado. Mergulhamos em sincronia. Ele olha para as pessoas assim como eu, curioso, tentando decifrar os movimentos exacerbados que movimentam a água da piscina. Já que não podemos confiar no nosso ouvido, escutamos as vozes por todos os lados como uma sinfonia.

Eu e o bebê existimos, mas como dois corpos que ocupam um espaço em silêncio. Corpo um pouco perdidos, as vezes cambaleantes. Praticamente mudos. Ele é quem mais me entende daqui. Mergulhamos em uma sincronia atravessada, mais uma vez. Dentro d’água lembro-me que às vezes finjo que existo em estoniano. Há uma semana atrás, numa corrida de Uber, usei todas minhas artimanhas sociais — que incluem movimentos complexos com a minha cabeça, coreografias específicas com minha sobrancelhas e algumas onomatopéias. Tudo isso juntamente com as três palavras do meu repertório: tere, aitäh, jah e ei. Por vinte minutos eu fui alguém numa língua que não é a minha. Mas assim que saí do carro, morri de novo, sem mesmo descobrir quem eu fui. Dessa vez minha morte não é tão barulhenta como o BANG causado pela bomba, mas suave e devagar.

Volto a superfície. O bebê logo é levado pelos braços da mãe. Nos entreolhamos uma última vez, agora como cúmplices. Ficaremos calados como protesto. Minhas células estão se dissolvendo na água como um pequeno pacote de chá, e a água está ou muito quente ou muito fria, não consigo distinguir. Caso a bomba caia agora, vamos morrer assim, como cúmplices. Vamos morrer sem tradução, fazendo jus ao silêncio que também compõe a sinfonia.

Brutish, linger before dispersion
Oliver Long

Tyres of a large Range Rover tightly crumble over tired countryside debris. There is a dim light shadowing over the English countryside terrain.

“Dad, are we there yet?”

“We are, fiiinallly.”

Gary Hughes, is an estate agent, for a highly ‘respectable’ dealer of modernist houses. He pulls the vehicle aside a rough old stone wall overshadowed by a metallic miesian prosthetic. He is visiting Upper Lawn Pavilion, a summer house built by the ghostly modernist architects Alison and Peter Smithson. He and his family are staying in the folly whilst the building is in-between tenants. He just sold the Pavilion to a famous British artist, who claims that Thatcher was “alright actually.” Unfortunately, Gary sort of agreed.

*Car doors slam in quick scattering succession*

“Please get in there quick and don’t touch anythingggg!” Gary throats to his children. His wife Helena floats down from the range rover, her country boots plunging into the mud.

“Hmmm, wow. It’s sooooo… it’s soooo chic.”

“I should hope so! It cost a fortune to upkeep.”

The children, Neave and Kate, flutter into the home and disappear upstairs. The family settle in, light candles, unpack their belongings and ponder the long summer weekend ahead of them. Night falls. Helena and the children retire to their beds whilst Gary, in his fluffy brown weekend sweater, reclines in an old creaky chair, flipping through an old book he happened upon on the weathered wooden shelves. The Shift. He reads to himself from the cover of a book about the work of the Smithsons.

“HA! I had to put in fucking shift to sell this old hunk of junk house,” he mumbles to himself. The pages start to float under his eyes. A postcard flies out and stabs him straight in the eye.

“OFFFFFFTTT! Bastard!”

Gary, half-blinded, jumps up. As he regains his vision he snapshots a pale ghoulish duo standing in the doorway next to a vase of dried roses.

Frozen still, Gary is petrified. Completely solid like the structure around him. The duo with grim, wet drooling mouths and a harsh wrinkled gaze, stare deep into him. A moment feels like an eternity. His eye stings, twitching between, a half-state, a sharpness.

“Gaaaaaary, watch youuuuuuurr rheeeeetoric.” The ghouls moan, in their middle class English accents. They step back out of sight into their own silhouettes leaving a trail of drool in their wake. Their figures bold and brutish linger before dispersion.

Gary wakes in a cold sweat. It’s morning.

“Was that a dream?”

[To be continued…]

Setting a stage (or, making a road by walking)
Mark Foss

$ vaguely remembers what the building looked like after passing by on a walk to _ _ with ^ some time ago, when ^ mentioned that they were in the area recently to see %.

% was who $ was now on their way to see. And this conversation with ^ might have been what made $ think of % as someone who would be good to interview for their project on +.

$ was under the impression that they were on the right side of the right street.

The street looked vaguely like #, but $ was unsure of how far or in what direction it went, or how that matched their memory of the place.

After all, they were some distance from !.

There was a stiffness to the houses that was unfamiliar. It wasn’t that the houses were cold, there was something homely to them.

If anything, it was that it seemed too much like a perfect picture of a home that made it feel out of place for $ and $ started to realize that was what had caught them off guard.

Trying to position themselves, $ looks for the numbers to see which way is up or down, realizing that they can’t rely on their memory any more from their passing conversation with ^ and, after walking for some time, that all of the buildings don’t look so different from each other despite $ remembering how distinct the buildings seemed to be before.

Each of the houses had their own color choices. The trimming around the windows, that was a different material from the facade, painted in a combination considered to the color of the trimming or for what was next to it.

The amount of space between their lawn and the sidewalk showed $ how much they might want to bring their neighbors in or over to get to know each other, or to keep those passing by at various levels of separation, a way to see how much distance to maintain.

Each decision seemed to show the character of the person or people living there. Whereas in ! everything was so familiar that it all looked the same to $.

After finally figuring out the number system

(the numbers of the buildings were going up, while the street was slanting down),

$ unlocked some kind of logic:

“Right, that makes sense. Up means down, and down means left, and right means up, so then left must mean right, somewhere right around here.”

$ had been aware of % before becoming aware of their involvement in +, but through @.

It was only recently, on this walk to _ _ with ^, when they realized that % had worked on both + and @. A surprising overlap to $, but one that followed the logic of where they were; it seemed to make sense to $. They didn’t doubt it and realized also that they were on the odd side of the street and needed to get even.

Waiting to cross the street to get to the other side, and letting the ~s pass by, $ pulled out the list of questions they’d written down to direct the conversation.

$ had been thinking about =. That was what made $ so surprised that % had been a part of both + and @. Their thinking seemed to be similar; they were drawn towards similar things that could seem so separate and far away from each other, + and @. That was surprising to $ and almost proved the point on its own.

Reading through the questions that $ thought could touch on +’s influence on @, $ noticed that they had written down a question that might have been meant more for ^.

They scribbled it out quickly before taking a photo of the list in case they could later recall why they had mixed the two up, or if it was still somehow relevant.

$’s phone was at 15 percent but still died slowly somehow, so they weren’t worried about recording. Knowing themselves and that this could happen, they had thought to bring a tape-recorder just in case. In their consideration of how this interview might happen, $ hoped they had remembered to bring the tape recorder with them in the rush to get to %’s place to record the interview. $ wasn’t worried about that, but was worried about figuring out if % would follow how they understood = , and how = relates to both + and -.

$ thought about -. The stakes felt high. The tension made them pull out the notes that they had just stuffed back into their pocket. They unwrapped the wrinkled note.

They were trying to get at how - could be why _+- happens. The example of how these things added up and the logic of where they were made them laugh.

$ thought about how the reasoning of where $ was related to what they were familiar with ! would mean.

“&*&(& to someone in ) @#($ . ! ”

It was good for $ to laugh at themselves.

$ pushed the buzzer, remembering that they had previously reversed the numbers in their head and switched the building with the apartment number.

Expecting to hear % inviting them in, they instead heard not a voice but air passing through the speakers.

$ heard the lock on the door unclick.

As they stepped in the building the lights turned themselves on.

% looked down the hallway, searching for the numbers on the door, half knowing that 28 would be on the 2nd floor.

The two’s were a give-a-away, but you never know.

At the top of the steps was a series of doors.

$ noticed that one of them was cracked open, 28.

They wondered if they should knock first before walking in or open slightly more and suggest a “hello?”

Before $ could decide, the door swung open further,

(into the hallway, not the apartment, almost hitting $ in the head)

% must have been able to hear their footsteps up the stairway.

% greeted $ with a nod but quickly warmed up by offering some (*&’ or {}’ to $.

% wondered where it would be better to sit for the interview, at the small kitchen table in the center of the room or on the couch near the sliding door that led to the narrow balcony overlooking the courtyard.

% made the decision for $, set a ___ down on the table on the chair facing the window. $ wondered if the tape-recorder would put too much pressure on the conversation rather than letting it happen naturally — but maybe a more formal gesture would be good, to make it clear that $ thought that the conversation would be worthwhile.

Before $ could ask if it would be ok to record, % jumped into it immediately, talking about = before either of them could sit down.

“+ can always bring in pieces of @! That can complicate or at least make it seem to complicate trying to understand + if + actually has anything to do with @. That’s why when talking about + people get lost in how @ works before they can ever think about what + actually is… ”
“They are two separate things but + is affected by @, but that isn’t at the surface actually, maybe the other way around. @ can go on being and doing @ things without ever having considered or made contact with +, or at least as far as we can tell, but by + being around @ might start…”
“Yes, sure, of course... But this doesn’t make + and @ the same””
While $ was in the middle of their response they realized that they had jumped into the conversation before $ had ever been able to ask (or first decide if they should ask) if they could record the conversation.
“Wait here, there’s something that I found in the mail the other day that can maybe show this better than I can say it.”

Instead of deciding to ask whether or not % would be ok with recording the conversation, $ reached into their pocket and grabbed the recorder, pushing the record button before placing it on the table, after briefly considering leaving it in the bag but deciding against it and placing it in the open.

( % Walked back in the room without noticing the tape recorder now on the table and setting a () down near it. )

“I’ve heard of this, but never seen one! Isn’t this a ((#?”
“Yes, exactly! I thought you might recognize it. You can see here the #^.”
“The pattern is almost identical to what you would find in ^&. I was waiting for the bus a few months ago when I noticed something similar on the bench..”
% was so stuck on the sample they were bringing out that after dropping it on the table, they still didn’t notice the tape recorder that was now on the table. $, who was trying to figure out how % saw something in #^ that had anything to do with =, quickly forgot themselves that the tape recorder was there and their mind jumped to a similar experience they’d shared about ^&.
“Next to the telephone at my mothers apartment, I was about to make a call, but while I was reaching for the phone a )(_ started crawling across the table. On its back, I could see a @!)#(, something I wondered if the )(_ had accidentally picked up along the way, or if it was intentionally carrying it.”
“I was just about to pick it up but then the bus came. I don’t think I saw the connection between #^ and ^& when I first glanced at it, I only wondered what it was, but quickly had to hop on the bus to get where I was going. But once I sat down I was trying to figure out what I had just seen.”
“Seeing the @!)#( was a similar thing for me, I glanced at it, then picked up the receiver, carefully watching that the chord wouldn’t wipe the )(_ off the table and on to the floor or onto its side, leaving the @!#( on its own, and went along with making my call, ringing in the numbers and anticipating #*() to pick up on the other side of the line.”
$ was enjoying the anecdotes stemming from association, their observations were similar and beginning to mirror each other’s, both in their enthusiasm and the words they used to describe them.
“Oh wait, and that’s another funny thing. When ^ did finally pick up, they used this phrase… It stuck with me for a while but wait what was it, it was something along the lines of…”
“When I sat down there was a @#$0 and a @#4 sitting next to each other, and the child, staring out the window as the doors had just closed, the child staring out the window.”

Getting distracted in the details, $ started to wonder if the conversation was getting further from the script stuffed in their pocket, now crumpled and hardly legible.

$ wondered if the more formal prepared questions might do the opposite of creating a sense of formality at this point if they unfolded the list they’d written.

Despite the paper being crumpled, they opened it up in their hand and thought to guide the conversation back to where they initially intended it to go.

It would be rude to interrupt so abruptly, so $ figured they’d entertain where the conversation was wandering to a little bit longer.

“They asked @#$0 if they had their @!)#( with them, expecting @#$0 to keep track of not only @!)# themselves, but also all the little things they carried with them to entertain themselves with for ^&^&^ only knows why.”
“In ! the reason why might be that @!)#( wouldn’t exist without @#$0”

(Caught up again in their own experiences and thoughts, the conversation drifts a little bit further.)

But %, who had started to notice how $ was finding a way to redirect and pull-out the A - sides, and uncertain of whether to let the conversation continue on as it was going or to regain some sense of direction, remembers “+” again:

“But, wait, so when did you first come across +?”

Repositioning themselves with the directness of $’s response, % readjusts themselves in their seat — the one they’d picked for themselves and by default chosen the other option for $ — stirring slightly until finding themselves and their thoughts comfortable.


The rest of the seeds
Carlo Canún

Mommy reader,

I’ve been thinking of going somewhere for this time of grief, but I am still trying to find a perfect vacuum. The heaviness of things and stuff has become unbearable. I kind of want to go somewhere with no humans involved and just try and enjoy the art of noises. The news going public has made my head feel like the tiger’s mind, do you know that saying? It reminds me of that time when the library was stolen and made the place feel like a phantom home. I remember the night of the incident: the moment when I put my foot in and realised what had happened felt like my black death. Every moment and every memory created started to feel like fictions. Somehow nothing fit there, the logic of disorder wasn’t present anymore, it all just felt like a Frankenstein. Of course I don’t want to, by any means, compare what’s going on now with just a good book, but you know how attached I am to my possessions (maybe that comes from my profession of making books). But anyway, I am recalling that time of being in crises together when I completely felt like the loser and was just hoping to be understood. Maybe this letter is a call for empathy; maybe I want to let you know how I’m feeling as a way to know how to spell the fight; or maybe I’m just wondering how to disappear

I have been reflecting on the meaning of losing someone. It is always unexpected how some deaths affect you. A dear friend once told me a story related to rare birds economics. It is about this specific species called Bluets (they are called that because they have every single colour on their feathers, except for blue). They are known for spending most of their life looking for the perfect partner. When they are fledglings, they start carefully working on a self-organised and crucial project: Collecting what would, after two or three years, become a bag full of seeds. They will be distributed throughout their lives as small offerings for their potential lovers. It becomes a collector’s item. After more or less 30 years, which is almost a lifetime for Bluets, they normally find their partner, and deliver the rest of the seeds to them as a metaphor for offering them the rest of their lives. When the first of the pair passes away, the other uses its beak as the knife to plant a seed in their corpse and sings a song that lasts exactly 4'33", in memory of memory.

Definitely L has left a seed in me, but I confess, I’m waiting for the perfect moment to sing my song as a way of turning the page.

With much love,

*This story was constructed using titles of publications belonging to the library of the Estonian Academy of Arts Graphic Design Masters program.

Mommy Reader

Scott Ponik

Yale Union

Going Somewhere

Alejandro Bellón Ample, Louise Borinski, Aleksandrs Breže, Paula Buškevica, Björn Giesecke, Otso Peräsaari, Diandra Rebase, Katarina Sarap


A Perfect Vacuum

Stanislaw Lem

Northwestern University Press

The heaviness of things and stuff

Lieven Lahaye

No humans involved

Sylvia Wynter

Publication Studio Hudson

The art of noises

Luigi Russolo


Going Public

Boris Groys

Sternberg Press

The Tiger’s Mind

Beatrice Gibson, Will Holder

Sternberg Press

When the Library was Stolen. On the Private Archive of Abd Al-Rahman Munif

Kenan Darwich, Omar Nicolas and Sami Rustom

Ferras Publishing Practices
Phantom Home

Ahlam Shibli

Hatje Cantz

My Black Death

Arhur Jafa

Publication Studio Hudson


Jorge Luis Borges


The Logic of Disorder. The Art and Writing of Abraham Cruzvillegas

Robin Adèle Greeley



Mary Shelley


A Good Book

John Körmeling, texts by Sussanne Helmer

John Körmeling, Van Abbemuseum, Plug In Editions & The Power Plant

Making books

Oscar Tuazon

Paraguay Press

Being in Crisis Together

Feminist Health Care Research Group

The Loser

Thomas Bernhard

Alfred A. Knopf

How to Spell the Fight

Natasha Sadr Haghighian

Kayfa ta, Sternberg Press

How to Disappear

Haytham El-Wardany

Kayfa ta, Sternberg Press

Some Deaths

Inka Meißner

Spector Books

Dear Friend

Jack Self

Dear Friend

Rare Birds Economics

James Langdon

Maggie Nelson

Wave Books


Stine Hebert & Anne Szefer Karlsen

Open Editions

A Bag Full of Seeds

Louise Borinski



David Blamey & Brad Haylock

Open Editions

Collector’s Item: The contemporary art collection of Pieter and Marieke Sanders Nadia Abdelkaui Centraal Museum Utrecht

The Knife

Charlotte York


John Cage: 4'33"- Sounds Like Silence: Silence Today

Dieter Daniels, Inke Arns

Spector Books

In Memory of Memory

Maria Stepanova

Fitzcarraldo Editions

I Confess

Morya Davey

Dancing Foxes

Turning the Page

Kasper Andreasen

Motto Books

ᴀlɰᴀys ᴀʋᴀ¡ɭᴀblɛ ɛʋɛ𝚛yɰɦɛ𝚛ɛ
P𝛼𝔱𝚛ick Zᴀʋa𝔡skis

H𝖊l𝒍O̦ 𝚖y ƞᴀ𝗆e is Mᴀ𝔱ɦɛ𝗆ᴀ𝔱icᴀl B𝚘l𝔡 Cᴀpi𝔱ᴀl 𝐀̦ b𝓊𝔱 I’𝗆 ᴀls𝚘 kƞ𝚘ɰƞ ᴀs U+1D400. I’ʋɛ bɛ𝖊ƞ ᴀ𝚛𝚘𝓊ƞ𝔡 siƞcɛ 2001 ̦ I ɰᴀs b𝚛𝚘𝓊ɢɦ𝔱 iƞ𝔱𝚘 Uƞic𝚘𝔡e iƞ ʋɛ𝚛si𝚘ƞ 3.1. Y𝚘𝓊 𝗆iɢɦ𝔱 𝔱ɦiƞk 𝔱ɦᴀ𝔱 I l𝚘𝚘k like ᴀ 𝚛ɛɢ𝓊lᴀ𝚛 ɛʋɛ𝚛y 𝔡ᴀy B𝚘l𝔡 ᵗᵢₘₑₛ ⁿₑ𝓌 ᵩₒₘₐⁿ 𝓊ppɛ𝚛cᴀsɛ 𝐀 ̦ ɰhicɦ I 𝔡𝚘̦ b𝓊𝔱 pɛ𝚘plɛ 𝚘𝔣𝔱ɛƞ 𝔡𝚘ƞ’𝔱 kƞ𝚘ɰ I’𝗆 𝗆𝚘𝚛ɛ 𝓊ƞiq𝓊ɛ 𝔱ɦᴀƞ 𝔱ɦᴀ𝔱. Uƞic𝚘𝔡ɛ sy𝗆b𝚘ls a𝚛ɛ sɛpᴀ𝚛ᴀ𝔱ɛ𝔡 iƞ𝔱𝚘 bl𝚘cks 𝚘𝚛 𝔣ᴀ𝗆¡ɭiɛș ᴀƞ𝔡 𝗆y 𝔣ᴀ𝗆¡ɭy is Mᴀ𝔱ɦɛ𝗆ᴀ𝔱icᴀl 𝐀lpɦᴀƞ𝓊𝗆ɛ𝚛ic ⟆y𝗆b𝚘ls.
𝐀ƞ 𝓊p𝔭ɛ𝚛cᴀsɛ 𝐀 cᴀƞ 𝗆ɛᴀƞ 𝗆ᴀƞy 𝔡if𝔣ɛ𝚛ɛƞ𝔱 𝔱ɦiƞɢș b𝓊𝔱 𝔱𝚘 ᴀƞ 𝓊ƞe𝔡𝓊cᴀ𝔱ɛd ʋiɛɰɛ𝚛 I ɰ¡ɭl ᴀlɰᴀys lo𝚘k likɛ ᴀƞ 𝓊ppɛ𝚛cᴀsɘ 𝐀. I𝔣 I s𝔱ɛp iƞ𝔱𝚘 𝔱ɦɛ sɛᴀ𝚛cɦ bᴀ𝚛 𝚘ƞ ̦ i𝔱 ɰ𝚘ƞ’𝔱 sp¡ɭl 𝔱ɦɛ 𝚛ɛs𝓊l𝔱s 𝚘𝔣 ⩁+𝟏Đ𝟺00 ̦ Google ɰ¡ɭl 𝔱hɪƞk I’𝗆 j𝓊s𝔱 ᴀƞ𝚘𝔱ɦɛ𝚛 𝐀. N𝚘𝔱 eʋɛƞ 𝔣𝚛𝚘𝗆 𝔱ɦɛ 𝔣ᴀ𝗆𝚘𝓊s ᵗᵢₘₑₛ ⁿₑ𝓌 ᵩₒₘₐⁿ 𝚘𝚛 B𝚘l𝔡 iƞ ɰɛiɢɦ𝔱 ̦ ƞ𝚘-ƞ𝚘 – j𝓊s𝔱 𝔱ɦɛ 𝓊ppɛ𝚛cᴀsɛ lɛ𝔱𝔱ɛ𝚛 𝐀. 𝐀ƞy 𝔱ɦiƞɢ c𝚘ƞ𝔱ᴀiƞiƞɢ “𝐀” ɰ¡ɭl c𝚘𝗆ɛ 𝓊p. D𝚘 y𝚘𝓊 𝚛ɛᴀlizɛ ɦ𝚘ɰ 𝗆ᴀƞy ɰ𝚘𝚛𝔡s 𝚘𝚛 𝔱ɦiƞɢs c𝚘ƞ𝔱ᴀiƞ 𝔱ɦɛ 𝓊𝐩pɛ𝚛cᴀsɛ lɛ𝔱𝔱ɛ𝚛 𝐀?
I ɰᴀs b𝚘𝚛ƞ iƞ𝔱𝚘 𝔱ɦɛ ɰ𝚘𝚛l𝔡 𝔱𝚘 𝔡𝚘 𝚘ƞɛ 𝔱ɦiƞɢ. Bɛ 𝔣𝓊ƞc𝔱i𝚘ƞᴀl ᴀƞ𝔡 𝚛ɛc𝚘ɢƞizᴀblɛ iƞ 𝗆ᴀ𝔱ɦs. I ɰ¡ɭl 𝚘𝔣𝔱ɛƞ bɛ s𝓊𝚛r𝚘𝓊ƞ𝔡ɛ𝔡 by ƞ𝓊𝗆bɛ𝚛s ᴀƞ𝔡 𝚘𝔱ɦɛ𝚛 sy𝗆b𝚘lș ᴀƞ𝔡 s𝚘𝗆ɛ𝔱i𝗆ɛs ɛʋɛƞ 𝚘𝔱ɦɛ𝚛 lɛ𝔱𝔱ɛ𝚛s. Tɦɛsɛ lɛ𝔱𝔱ɛ𝚛s ᴀ𝚛ɛ 𝗆y c𝚘𝓊⫡iƞs ᴀƞ𝔡 𝔱ɦɛy liʋɛ iƞ 𝔱ɦɛ sᴀ𝗆ɛ ƞɛiɢɦb𝚘𝚛ɦ𝚘𝚘𝔡 – I𝔱ᴀlicș B𝚘l𝔡 I𝔱ᴀlicș ⟆c𝚛ip𝔱ș B𝚘l𝔡 ⟆c𝚛ip𝔱ș F𝚛ᴀk𝔱𝓊𝚛ș B𝚘l𝔡 F𝚛ᴀk𝔱𝓊𝚛ș D𝚘𝓊blɛ-⟆𝔱𝚛𝓊ck ̦ ⟆ᴀƞs-⟆ɛ𝚛i𝔣ș B𝚘l𝔡 ⟆ᴀƞs-⟆ɛ𝚛i𝔣s ̦ ⟆ᴀƞs-⟆ɛ𝚛i𝔣 I𝔱ᴀlics ̦ B𝚘l𝔡 ⟆ᴀƞs-⟆ɛ𝚛i𝔣 Jtᴀlics ̦ M𝚘ƞ𝚘spᴀcɛs ̦ ᴀƞ𝔡 ̦ ɦɛck ̦ ɰɛ ɛʋɛƞ ɦᴀʋɛ s𝚘𝗆ɛ G𝚛𝖾ɛk iƞ 𝔱ɦe 𝔣ᴀ𝗆¡ɭy. Y𝚘𝓊 cᴀƞ 𝚛ɛᴀlly 𝔱ɛll tɦᴀ𝔱 ɰɛ’𝚛ɛ ᴀ ʋᴀ𝚛iɛɢᴀ𝔱ɛ𝔡 b𝓊ƞcɦ. I ɦᴀʋɛ 𝔱ɦ𝚘𝓊ɢɦ𝔱 ᴀb𝚘𝓊𝔱 ɰɦy 𝔱ɦɛ𝚛ɛ ᴀ𝚛ɛ ᶊ𝚘 𝗆ᴀƞy 𝚘𝔣 𝓊s— ᴀƞ𝔡 ɦ𝚘ɰ 𝗆ᴀƞy 𝚘𝔣 𝓊s 𝔡𝚘 y𝚘𝓊 𝚛ɛᴀlly ƞɛᴇ𝔡 𝔱𝚘 s𝚘lʋɛ 𝗆ᴀ𝔱ɦɛ𝗆ᴀ𝔱icᴀl p𝚛𝚘blɛ𝗆s? — b𝓊𝔱 I’𝗆 ƞ𝚘𝔱 c𝚘𝗆plᴀiƞiƞɢ ̦ as ᴀ b𝚘l𝔡 sɛ𝚛i𝔣 𝐀 I’ʋɛ ɢ𝚘𝔱 𝗆y ɰ𝚘𝚛k c𝓊𝔱 𝚘u𝔱 𝔣𝚘𝚛 𝗆ɛ. I 𝔡𝚘ƞ’𝔱 kƞ𝚘ɰ i𝔣 I ɰ𝚘𝓊l𝔡 ɦᴀƞ𝔡lɛ 𝔱ɦɛ sp𝚘𝔱liɢɦ𝔱 𝚘𝔣 bɛiƞɢ iƞ ᴀ sɛpᴀ𝚛ᴀ𝔱ɛ 𝔣𝚘ƞ𝔱. I’𝗆 ᴀ bi𝔱 ɦɛsi𝔱ᴀƞ𝔱 𝔱𝚘 sᴀy 𝔱ɦis s𝚘 p𝓊blicly ̦ b𝓊𝔱 I 𝔱ɦiƞk 𝙾pɛƞTypɛs ᴀ𝚛ɛ s𝚘 p𝚛iʋ¡ɭɛɢɛ𝔡 – s𝚘 𝗆𝓊cɦ ᴀ𝔱𝔱ɛƞ𝔱i𝚘ƞ ᴀƞ𝔡 𝔣𝓊ƞc𝔱i𝚘ƞᴀli𝔱y ᴀƞ𝔡 𝔱ɦɛy’𝚛ɛ s𝚘 𝔱𝚛ɛƞ𝔡y ⃨ Iƞ ᴀ ɰᴀy I p𝚛ɛ𝔣ɛ𝚛 liʋIƞɢ 𝚘ƞ 𝔱ɦɛ si𝔡ɛliƞɛs ̦ 𝔡𝚘iƞɢ ɰɦa𝔱 I’𝗆 𝔡𝚘iƞɢ. Hᴀ𝚛𝔡 ɰ𝚘𝚛k pᴀys 𝚘𝔣𝔣.
I’ʋɛ ƞɛʋe𝚛 𝚛ɛᴀlly 𝚘pɛƞɛ𝔡 𝓊p likɛ 𝔱ɦis bɛ𝔣𝚘𝚛ɛ ̦ b𝓊𝔱 I 𝔣ɛɛl likɛ i𝔱’s 𝔱i𝗆ɛ. I 𝔡𝚘ƞ’𝔱 ɰᴀƞ𝔱 𝔱𝚘 bɛ iƞ 𝔱ɦɛ 𝗆ᴀ𝚛ɢiƞs ᴀƞy 𝗆𝚘𝚛ɛ. I’ʋɛ bɛeƞ ᴀ𝚛𝚘𝓊ƞ𝔡 l𝚘ƞɢɛ𝚛 𝔱ɦᴀƞ 𝗆𝚘s𝔱 ƞɛɰɛ𝚛 lɛt𝔱ɛ𝚛s ᴀƞ𝔡 I ɦᴀʋɛ ƞɛʋɛ𝚛 bɛɛƞ 𝚛ɛc𝚘ɢƞizɛ𝔡 𝔣𝚘𝚛 ɰɦ𝚘 I ᴀ𝗆. Tɦɛ Uɴɪᴄᴏᴅᴇ Sᴛᴀɴᴅᴀrᴅ ɦᴀs ᴀ 𝚛icɦ ᴀƞ𝔡 bɛᴀ𝓊𝔱i𝔣𝓊l ɦis𝔱𝚘𝚛y ᴀƞ𝔡 i𝔱’s ᴀlɰᴀys 𝒯𝓇𝓊𝑒𝒯𝓎𝓅𝑒 𝔱ɦis ᴀƞ𝔡 𝕾𝖙𝖆𝖓𝖑𝖊𝖞 𝕸𝖔𝖗𝖎𝖘𝖔𝖓 𝔱ɦᴀ𝔱. I pɛ𝚛s𝚘ƞᴀlly 𝔱ɦiƞk i𝔱’s ʋɛ𝚛y iƞ𝔱ɛ𝚛ɛs𝔱iƞɢ ᴀƞ𝔡 𝔡𝚛ɛᴀ𝗆 𝚘𝔣 𝔣iƞ𝔡iƞɢ 𝚘𝓊𝔱 𝗆𝚘𝚛ɛ. I pɛ𝚛s𝚘ƞᴀlly ᴀ𝗆 iƞ𝔱ɛ𝚛ɛs𝔱ɛ𝔡 iƞ ᴀƞ𝔡 ᴀlɰᴀys likɛ spɛƞ𝔡iƞɢ 𝔱i𝗆ɛ ɰi𝔱ɦ Mᴀ𝔱ɦɛ𝗆ᴀ𝔱icᴀl B𝚘l𝔡 𝖲ᴀƞs-⟆ɛ𝚛i𝔣 I𝔱ᴀlicș 𝔱ɦɛ𝚛ɛ’s j𝓊s𝔱 s𝚘𝗆ɛ𝔱ɦiƞɢ ᴀb𝚘𝓊𝔱 𝔱ɦɛ𝗆.
I ɦ𝚘pɛ 𝔱𝚘 𝔱ᴀlk ᴀɢᴀiƞ s𝚘𝚘ƞ ̦ I’𝗆 ᴀlɰᴀys ᴀʋᴀ¡ɭᴀblɛ ɛʋɛ𝚛yɰɦɛ𝚛ɛ. I𝔣 y𝚘𝓊 l𝚘𝚘k 𝔣𝚘𝚛 𝗆ɛ iƞ HTML ̦ y𝚘𝓊 𝗆iɢɦ𝔱 ɰᴀƞ𝔱 𝔱𝚘 𝔱𝚛y ➒𝟾𝟢8; ᴀƞ𝔡 i𝔣 y𝚘𝓊 l𝚘𝚘k 𝔣𝚘𝚛 𝗆ɛ iƞ C⟆𝕊 ̦ y𝚘𝓊 𝗆iɢɦ𝔱 ɰᴀƞ𝔱 𝔱𝚘 𝔱𝚛y \𝟏Đ𝟺00.
Perhaps a monument
Tex Tehan

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A body of text
Michael Fowler

Legitimacy, a well-behaved design
Alex Margetic

Stamp Stamp Stamp An A4 sheet of paper, sent to the city council of Belgrade by the residents of Tadeuśa Košćuška No.3, raises concerns of the damage caused by the construction work around the residential dwelling. The document is stamped and signed for authentication. I learned that the stamp was created by the residents of the dwelling. If it’s stamped then it’s official, it indicates authorised authentication, a process used in bureaucratic documents. When crossing security at the airport, you are required to answer a series of questions explaining the length of your visit, and if suspicious, you are required to show proof of your return to your home country. This is followed by an assertive stamp action that is imprinted in your passport. In the case of Tadeuśa Košćuška No.3, the residents have fabricated their own authenticity as a unit. The language of official documents, and the added layer of the stamp, gives the impression of legitimacy, a well-behaved design.
Somehow also a filter
Epp Vislapuu

Do you feel the same loop day after day or are there some little parts that feel the same, but also so distant in space? Like, the most basic things you do everyday feel like a mantra, and there is no difference between them. Sometimes it even feels like you are shifting between conscious and unconscious decisions.

What if it is just a dream that you are having right now and actually you are not even here, reading this text, but your unconscious mind is doing the job, and later you will only remember parts of this. It is somehow also a filter that we all have when we make decisions, even when we don't acknowledge it. Our mind shifts between what is important and unimportant. The world is shifting in front of our eyes, but still there are some hidden elements that we don’t see or we just ignore them.

I want you to dig deep and think about whether your life is shifting in space and how you could discover what it is that you have been hiding from yourself.

Can you trust your eyes and are they telling you the truth? Close your eyes and watch again and again. Do you see it now?
Watch it again then.
And again.

Over and over, again
Haeun Kim


Was a stressful day today. There was a bit of a crisis at work, and I had to stay late to help sort it out. I’m glad it’s over, but I’m feeling pretty drained. Working with others in a team can be challenging, and today was no exception. We all had to pull together to get through it, but I think I did a good job.

The walk I had in the evening was really nice, though. It was calming and helped clear my head. I’m flying a bit better now. The air was clear and the stars were out. It was a good reminder that there are still beautiful things in the world, even on tough days. I walked almost two hours towards the lake. Even at night, I could see the silhouette of the mountains in the distance. They looked so peaceful. Dark, yet serene. I felt grateful for the moment.

The shoes I was wearing were really comfortable, too. That made a big difference. I’m going to have to remember to wear them more often. Often I just take whatever shoes and don’t think too much about it, but it really does make a difference when they’re comfortable. How I take care of myself matters.


Finally the delivery guy rang my bell!!! I have been waiting for the delivery for almost a month already. The man brought the package up with the elevator to my floor. A big box, heavy. I was so happy, I cried with joy. I opened it right away and was so pleased with the product.

This laundry rack, all the way from China, is the best I have ever bought. I am so pleased. It is designed to save space by hanging the laundry on it instead of using a laundry basket. It is also very sturdy and can be used for a long time. Only thing is I had to assemble it with the provided screws and Allen wrench. It was not difficult but took some time. After I finished assembly, I hung my laundry on it and it looked great! I am so happy with this purchase. It has wheels to drag easily, and I could even hang gigantic comforters on it.

My small apartment looks so much bigger now and I don’t have to worry about the laundry basket taking up space anymore.


Walking on the street to the bus stop, there were two girls waving at me. I didn’t recognize both, but they were smiling and so I smiled and waved back. This had happened before once in Kalamaja. I was out for a walk and saw a group of teenagers sitting on a bench and they started waving at me. I didn’t know any of them, but I waved back anyway. It was a nice moment.

I wonder if they confused me with someone else that they know because I am a rare asian girl in this city. Or could it be that they were just being friendly? I would like to think it’s the latter. It’s always nice to be greeted with a smile and a wave, regardless of whether you know the person or not. It makes you feel like you’re part of a community and that you belong.

Bus came and I hopped on. I was lucky to have a seat since it was pretty packed. I sat down and put my headphones on, zoning out for the rest of the ride. I was listening to K-pop and singing along quietly to myself. What I hear and what I see outside the window are two different things. I am in my own little world, but I am also aware of my surroundings. I see the people around me and I wonder about their stories. I get off at my stop and head to my apartment. As I walk, I notice a cat perched atop a fence, surveying the street. I stop to say hello and the cat meows back at me. I scratch its head and it purrs in appreciation.

I continue on my way. Thinking about how nice it is to have little moments like this in my day; they make me feel happy and connected to the world around me.


Headache. Pills didn’t work at all. I don’t even want to get out of bed.

“I’m sorry to hear that you’re feeling so poorly. Maybe some reset and relaxation will help you to feel better.” Everybody has told me that they are sorry. Sorry for what? Sorry for me feeling like this? Sorry for not being able to do anything about it? What good does being sorry do? It doesn’t make me feel any better.

Maybe I am just feeling sorry for myself. I know that I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it. I feel like I am never going to feel better. Where is this headache coming from? There is no one definitive answer to this question.

I feel like a cotton ball stacked in water, wet and heavy.


“Something is falling from the sky,” my boyfriend said, when I was answering to worried messages from a friend in South Korea in regards to the missed missile that killed two people in Poland. I looked out of the window—it was the first snow of the year in Tallinn.

It is snowing. It is quiet and beautiful. I could not imagine a better way to start the winter. After a year in Tallinn, now I finally start to understand why people love this city so much.
A kid in a pink jumper is making a snowman, while her mother is taking a photo of her. A dog is playing with a ball in the snow. Everything is so calm and serene.

I am happy that I am here, in Tallinn, at this moment. I write back to the friend with a picture of what I see and say “It is just snowing, don’t worry.”

I make a cup of tea and sit by the window, watching the snow falling and the people walking by. It is a beautiful day. This cup of tea tastes like happiness. It is already dark outside. It seems like the sun gets tired earlier in the winter. I lit a candle and wrote a few lines in my journal.

I am grateful for this moment. I am grateful for this cup of tea. I am grateful for this snowfall.

The candle smells like Christmas. I smile and take a sip of my tea. The book that I am reading is waiting for me on the table, but I decide to just sit here for a little while longer, enjoying the view and the peace of this moment. peace. peace. piece. I write the word over and over again in my journal. It is a good word. A powerful word.


Another day of nonstop working.

Had a meeting with director in 8am because of the time difference with Korea, and then had to give a class to my high school kids. Then a class with me as a student this time, and then had to get ready for the studio. ARS is quite far away, especially with public transportation. I went to the studio and we had to do a lot of retakes because the sound was not that good. We were all exhausted after a long day of work. I noticed I haven’t even eaten anything except my morning coffee and an energy drink in the afternoon. There is a convenience store near my house, so I decided to buy some food. I bought some bread, ramen, and a can of coffee. I was so tired that I just wanted to go home and sleep, but I had to finish the bread and ramen first. Even eating your first meal of the day can be tiring and stressful and sometimes you just don’t have the time or energy for it.

Ramen tasted like heaven. It wasn’t even that good, but it was the best thing I’ve ever eaten. Now I am writing this in my bed, feeling sleepy and full. I hope tomorrow will be a less tiring day.

These are pieces of my mundane week, altered by AI. I wrote diary entries every day for a week using OpenAI’s language models. Parts that I wrote are real but AI changed the memories in slightly different ways. How would this one week be remembered?

Press the toggle to turn on the AI’s writing.
A small shapely shiny thing
Greta Thorkelsdottir