A 73-second campaign film. Every word that appears on screen is below, because a film made entirely of text is unreadable to anyone who cannot see it. There is no narration to miss — the audio is instrumental. This page is the film.
None of that is cynicism. It is accuracy. You learned it the way you learn a stove is hot.
Somewhere in there, what you came to expect quietly replaced what you should be able to expect. Nobody ever wrote the second one down. So I did. It took ten lines.
That is not a platform. It is a standard. It works on a mayor, a senator, a school board, a landlord, a boss. It works on me.
I am not asking for your vote. I cannot have it, and I would not know what to do with it.
Expect more of the humans who run.
Print it. Read it out at the meeting. Ask them which one they will fail first. Make them answer on the record.
The text is the work; the film is one rendering of it. A piece made entirely of words on a screen is unavailable to anyone who cannot see the screen, so it lives here as well, at an address that will not move.
Everything in it is generated — no stock footage, no samples, no image models, no voice. The picture is typography and hand-drawn marks rendered from code. The score is synthesized in about a hundred lines of Python: additive synthesis for the piano, a detuned stack for the strings, delay-tap reverb. It is in G major and resolves to Gadd9 under a single line, the one that asks you for something. Each of the six opening lines gets its own piano note, descending, so the inventory sinks as it goes.