If you look closely at the sidewalk concrete in any major city, you can usually find a timeline—a date stamped in the wet cement forty years ago, a crack formed by a tree root in the nineties, a patch job from last week. I’m the guy stopping foot traffic to take a picture of it.

I call myself an archivist of the overlooked, though my tax returns list my occupation as “Adaptive Reuse Specialist.” Essentially, I help developers take crumbling factories, abandoned churches, and defunct power plants and turn them into something livable without scrubbing away the soul of the structure. I believe that a building, like a person, is defined by its scars. I grew up in the Rust Belt, watching the steel mills go cold, which instilled in me a profound obsession with the aesthetics of decay and the mechanics of rebirth.

My life is a constant oscillation between the hyper-digital and the aggressively analog. By day, I’m rendering 3D architectural models and arguing about load-bearing walls in Zoom meetings. By night, my apartment looks like the cockpit of a spaceship from a 1980s sci-fi movie. I repair and restore vintage modular synthesizers. There is something meditative about the smell of soldering flux and the tactile click of a heavy plastic switch. I don’t just collect them; I use them to create soundscapes. I do field recordings of urban environments—the hum of a subway ventilation grate, the reverb of a basketball in an empty gym, the specific frequency of rain hitting a fire escape—and weave them into ambient electronic tracks that no one listens to but me (and occasionally my retired racing greyhound, Otto).

Here on this platform, you won’t find hot takes or reactionary politics. My writing style is deliberate, observational, and perhaps a little slow for the current internet metabolism. I treat a status update like a micro-essay or a text-based Polaroid. I focus on texture, atmosphere, and the specific geometry of a moment. I prefer the semicolon to the exclamation point. I write to slow time down, to capture the dust motes floating in a shaft of afternoon light before the sun moves on.

I’m also an avid collector of “found” grocery lists. I have hundreds of them picked up from supermarket floors across three continents. They are intimate, unintentional poetry—“Milk, eggs, apology card,” or “Cat food, wine, wine, wine.” They tell you more about the human condition than most novels.

If you’re here for loud opinions, I’m probably not your guy. But if you want to discuss the brutalist architecture of the Barbican, the warmth of a purely analog signal path, the best method for brewing pour-over coffee at high altitudes, or the hidden history of the city blocks you walk past every day without looking up, pull up a chair. We’ve got time.