so, i have a podcast

even after recording and publishing (checks notes) nine episodes, i surprise myself with this statement – i have a podcast.

together with Skyler, my discord friend and the loveliest dragon, we decided to diversify the classic podcast genre ‘two dudes talking’ with ‘two dragons talking’ (where the dragon thing is coming from our online personas, obviously).

there is no one theme we focus on, but after two months there are some reoccuring subjects, as well as random tangents. we are still settling into the so called format, and finding our style, but i feel like it’s going to be a long and fun run.

you can find the podcast at


i am yet again at that phase of reading a ‘doorstopper’ book, when all decisions are regretted and i vow to never ever pick up a book longer than 400 pages.

this time it’s ‘ducks, newburyport’ driving me up the wall. one thousand pages of stream of consciousness. the cover blurb stated “ulysses has nothing on this”, but i’m afraid i disagree for now.

a little life by hanya yanagihara

so… one of the big points of reading books is to gain new experience indirectly and broaden emotional palette, right?

if you agree with this presumption, then “a little life” fulfils it plenty. but this is not a book i could recommend to anyone.

at all.

i can’t think of anyone whom i could say with a light heart and clear conscience “yeah, go read this book, you’ll have great time”. one reads “a little life” not for pleasure, but for poking holes in one’s peace of mind. and don’t we all have enough of that already? yanagihara’s reader gets eight hundred pages reminding them of horror humanity is capable of.

not something i needed.

memorabilia by robert browning

Ah, did you once see Shelley plain,

And did he stop and speak to you?

And did you speak to him again?

How strange it seems, and new!


But you were living before that,

And you are living after,

And the memory I started at—

My starting moves your laughter!


I crossed a moor, with a name of its own

And a certain use in the world no doubt,

Yet a hand’s-breadth of it shines alone

‘Mid the blank miles round about:


For there I picked up on the heather

And there I put inside my breast

A moulted feather, an eagle-feather—

Well, I forget the rest.