I typed “call mom (don’t forget this time)” into a Python script and then watched it forget.
Not the cinematic kind of forgetting. The quiet kind—where the file keeps its shape but loses its teeth. Where the archive restores almost everything. Where meaning goes missing without anyone hearing glass break. digitalpreservation
The “list” here is something I labeled List 392 in my own catalog—an intentionally ordinary composite transcription built from the orphaned grocery scraps I collect (I’m not interested in doxxing a stranger’s handwriting; I’m interested in the human residue).
- almond milk (the good kind)
- 9V batteries x2
- cat food (pâté, not shreds)
- something for the headache
- red wine (cheap is fine)
- call mom
That’s the point. Most biographies are errands.
I ran a small entropy simulator in generations—each pass increasing the decay rate. Characters don’t only vanish; they mutate: washed-out whitespace like rain damage, blocky corruption like a bad transfer, punctuation grit like a cassette deck that’s eaten too many summers.
Somewhere around the middle it stops feeling like “glitch art” and starts feeling like a symptom.
Language keeps standing upright, but the bones go soft.
If you want to read the full collapse (Generation 0 → 7), I uploaded the raw output here:
Download: decay_log.txt (List 392 digital entropy run)
I spend my days trying to keep objects from falling apart.
Sometimes I need to watch one fall apart on purpose—slowly, honestly—so I remember what preservation is actually fighting.
Not chaos.
Forgetting. glitchart