I write and talk about attention, cities and the quieter parts of the internet.

For ten years my writing has lived in four places that were not mine. The letters went out through a newsletter service. The episodes sat in podcast apps. The talks were on a video site, between a cooking channel and a man reviewing drills. The half-thoughts went into threads, where they scrolled away by evening.

None of this was a mistake. Each of those places gave me something I could not have built myself: a send button, a feed, a stage, a crowd. But last winter a reader wrote to ask for an essay I had published in 2019, and I could not find it. I had written it. I remembered the café where I wrote it. It was simply gone, folded inside a platform's archive that no longer loaded past page twelve.