Not the big days — you keep those. The Tuesday ones.
Free to start. Nothing to install.
Writing in it
No prompts asking how you feel. No streak to keep alive. No one reading over your shoulder, ever.
Look back
memtale never sends you a notification. It leaves things where you will find them.
“The flat is boxes. I labelled one ‘miscellaneous’ and haven’t opened it since.”
The walk to the river. Four times now, always in spring.
“The thing about the Renault story is—” and then nothing. It is still there if you want it.
Small hours has not heard from you in nine days. It does not mind.
Years in
You wrote on 412 days out of 1,460. That is not a score. That is 412 days you will still have when you are eighty.
Mostly after nine, once the flat goes quiet.
Private
Nobody reads this. Not us, not anyone who works here, not anyone who ever buys us.
We cannot let you back in either. Keep your recovery code somewhere real — a company that can always let you in is one that can always read you.
Bring what you have
Where you were, how you slept, how far you walked.
The moon that night, and what the world was doing.
Your type, your width, light or dark.