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April 2026
Cycled to the pool before the city was fully awake — the body half-arguing for more sleep, the legs already on the pedals. 1,100 metres, a new distance: 550 freestyle, then turned over for 550 on the back, long minutes of ceiling tiles passing in slow procession. Came up not tired. Coffee at Flying Beans, a tomato panini, the V60 doing its slow drip. Walked home; a cottage-cheese bake waiting. Two breakfasts on a Friday — the small luxury of being back somewhere. The afternoon went the way Fridays do — call prep, then a long Zoom. The May 7 talk is starting to take shape. The mind kept trying to do the math on the sleep number. The body wasn't listening. Just kept showing up.
Started inside-out. The body said go, the mind sat at the desk and refused. Walked out for strawberries and came back with the strawberries and the same ungenerous voice. Gutted a Todoist of 111 overdue tasks — six months of cost in a single column. By two the voice was gone. Then a small dark room near the center. Three hours with someone from a games publisher on what it takes to put a game on Steam. He talked like someone who'd earned the line letter by letter. Some days only open through someone else's life.
Quiet morning began louder than expected. Cycled to the pool before the city fully woke. Front strokes, then back — the body finding its rhythm with no negotiation. Cycled home along streets just warming up. Bakery shutters lifting. Cafes still wiping yesterday off their tables. The kind of Valencia hour where you feel like you've been let in early on a good secret. Filter coffee, tomato toast at a cafe terrace, an hour on the phone with an old friend. The body keeps showing up. The mind, sometimes, only catches up by lunch.
The week had been loud. Today the job was to sit. Ruzafa at eight was empty — shutters down, not a car, just birds working. The Valencia most residents forget exists. Sunday breakfast at home, no rush. Then the kind of afternoon where nothing earns itself. Walked to a park, blanket in the shade, a book in my hands and a YouTube lecture in my ears — the quiet irony of lying under a tree learning how to sit still. On the way home I stopped at a white lilac. Absurd white. The scent so strong I had to stand there a while.
Walked to the market for ordinary things. Stopped in the newspaper shop first. The fruit vendor I've been buying from for a year and a half was in the paper. A whole article — the kind nobody writes about the woman who weighs your strawberries and hands back the coins. Read it on the way home. Walked past her stall a different way — not a stranger to a stranger, but a regular who now knew her by name in print. All week I'd been working on being seen. Saturday, the neighborhood saw her.
Broken night. Snoring woke me twice. Went to the pool anyway. Back home, the rush. At thirteen hundred, a bank on the line. Forty minutes of presenting myself in the clearest language I had. Came out lit up. It landed. Lunch outside in spring sun, sat quiet for a while. Tuesday a friend talked about being seen. Wednesday the comic showed up on someone's screen three time zones west. Friday I was the one pitching. The loop closed on itself.
Quiet day. Tortilla, green tea, a book. Spent the afternoon stitching a pitch deck and handing a framework to another friend. The invisible day before a visible one. Evening: beard overdue. Walked to Ruzafa for a new spot. Pushed the door — a wall of herbal smoke hit first. Ah. That kind of barbershop. The barber circled the chair, humming, pausing, doing something careful with the scissors while the room had its own weather. Ten euros, tidier beard, a neighborhood scene collected.
Slept five hours. Went to the pool anyway — set a personal distance record. The ritual doesn't care what the night did. Afternoon: a message from San Francisco. Met him once in March, ten minutes at a table — he'd been watching the hippo comic. Evening video call. Five faces in a grid. The hippo has been a small private thing for most of its life. Today he turned up on somebody else's screen, three time zones west. Yesterday a friend talked about being seen. Today the doorbell rang.
Walked ten minutes to a cafe to sit across from a friend. Cafe solo, cheesecake, the terrace. She talked about public activity — speaking, being visible, the scary geography of standing in front of a room. And discipline — small steps across years. I mostly listened. Recognized the familiar ache under her sentences — same one I carry. Came home lit up and a little scattered. Some conversations light a lamp you then carry home.
First real work week back. Fell asleep at two — jet lag doing its quiet math. Threw on shoes and walked. Ruzafa was half-empty, shutters down — Valencia before the city wakes up, the version only returning residents see. A cafe was open. Took a V-60 and a pressed sandwich to a corner table, called a friend two hours east. Thirty minutes. Forty days away and nothing to catch up on. The kind of friendship that doesn't need a warm-up lap.
First full day home. Forty days — a month in SF, ten in Toronto, a plane between. Two holidays on one date — Orthodox Easter and Cosmonautics Day, sixty-five years since Gagarin went up. Walked to the park with coffee. The roses had bloomed while I was away. Two bright green parrots stepped into a puddle and began to bathe. Grinning like a fool. Home in the rain, one umbrella, two people. Some chapters open with fireworks. Some just open the door and start the coffee.
Three cities in one day. Toronto behind me. Six hours in Amsterdam ahead. Olya at the end of it. Plane landed forty minutes early. A bus to the east edge of Vondelpark with the day still figuring itself out. Walked. Tulips on the water. Cherry blossoms pink, then white. A great blue heron standing in the grass like he had nowhere to be either. Two cafes before noon. A flight, a ginger tea above the clouds. Olya opened the door at dusk.
Day 10. Last day. Ten days ago I walked into arrivals on four hours of rest — a friend in a hippo mask, his partner beside him with tulips. Today I closed the door behind me at the kitchen with a disco ball and sunflowers. Hugged them both. Took an Uber back through the same airport — no mask this time, no tulips, no one waiting. Plane left twenty minutes early. Ten days became something. The mask comes off, the friend stays.
Day 9 — the body filed its highest number in two weeks. Bike to the pool, the ritual held. Two hours on a call with a friend, the kind of talking that loads you up with ideas instead of spending you. Evening: cooked fusilli, opened champagne. Then he said: let's go to the roof. Up ten floors. Toronto below. CN Tower in violet. We pulled out a notebook and sketched a small thing we're making. Two hours of lines on paper and the quiet that only happens above a city.
Day 8 cracked. Couldn't fall asleep till two — body wouldn't settle. Something about borrowed kitchens, the quiet math of not being in the way. Almost booked a flight to Barcelona at breakfast. Took the bike instead, -5°C, pedaled across town to a cafe with tungsten light and a small sandwich. The body said it was fine. The mind said get me out. They met at the kettle of ginger tea I made that night.
Day 7 in Toronto. The first six days had been a drift — a hippo mask at arrivals, ice at Niagara, kitchens that weren't mine. Today was quieter. Woke at six-ten, level for the first time all week. Walked past the CN Tower to a cafe I hadn't tried yet, drip coffee and a plain bun in a window seat. Down the street: registered at a coworking. First desk of this Toronto chapter. Day 7 is when a place starts to become yours.
Snow in April. Biked to a cafe for coffee and a bacon sandwich, finished a weekly reflection. Spent thirty minutes walking the neighborhood looking for lunch, gave up, ordered pizza. Evening: helped a friend with dinner. Made the salad while he handled the steak. Then we sat at the table and didn't get up for two hours — AI, life, what we're building, what we're avoiding. Day six of staying at someone's home. You learn when to offer help and when to just start chopping.
Catholic Easter Sunday. Yesterday the mind wanted a Spain ticket. Today it wanted drip coffee and a blueberry scone. Biked to a cafe planning a quiet work morning, walked into a live trumpet and a guitar. Too loud to concentrate, sat there anyway. At the next table, a Russian-speaking couple told me where the good library was. Some Sundays the plan breaks and strangers hand you the rest of the day.
Woke up wanting to buy a ticket to Valencia. Caught the apathy before it became a plan. Put the phone away. Walked alone to a coffee shop. Coffee, sandwich, almond croissant. Sorted two weeks of messy notes. Didn't look at flights. Before dinner I quietly pushed the hippo's website live. The mind ran its Spain loop while the body filed a quieter report — best recovery in a month. Some days the mind wants to flee and the body decides to stay.
Couldn't sleep — two hours of tossing, anxiety humming. Woke at ten, concrete. A friend made breakfast: buckwheat, eggs, avocado. The kind of meal someone cooks when they notice you're not okay. Then into the car for Niagara. The trail started with rocks, then ice — chunks still frozen to the riverbed in April, spring pushing through anyway. We walked two hours along the edge of something enormous. The falls don't care about your night. They just keep falling.
Day 2 in Toronto. Morning energy at the bottom — the kind of anxiety that tells you you'll die homeless under a bridge while you're standing in a museum. Walked through exhibitions for two hours. My mind wasn't there. My legs were. At three I walked a friend to a hospital appointment. Yesterday he met me at the airport in a hippo mask. Today I walked him through cold drizzle to a doctor. The mind was negotiating fleeing to Spain. The body kept walking.
Five-fifteen alarm. Cab to the airport. Slept on the plane, missed the meal. Toronto came up cold and drizzling under the wing. Through arrivals — a friend was standing there in a full-head blue hippo mask, his partner beside him with tulips. I'd been the one drawing the hippo for months. Today someone wore his face so I'd see it first.
March 2026
Last day in the apartment. Woke up broken — six wake-ups in the night. A month to compress into one day. Laundry. Rental car. The calendar said pool at nine-thirty. Every voice said skip it. I went anyway. The ritual held. The rest was a list: monitor drop, suitcase run, vacuum bags, storage unit, return the rental, trash, clean. Tomorrow Toronto. Tonight, last night here.
Woke up apathetic. Spent an hour negotiating whether to go. Went anyway. Built an event manager with strangers in a hackathon loft. Slipped out at three for coffee and a waffle — the small reward when the room's been airless for four hours. By five we made the shortlist. Pitched. Came home to half-packed boxes, stood in the kitchen running a breath practice until the shoulders dropped. Some hackathons you enter because you couldn't find a reason not to go.
Last Sunday in Daly City. The body cashed in on yesterday's long bay walk. The mind didn't get the memo. Spent an hour booking a rental car — couldn't choose between two listings almost identical. The kind of paralysis where every small choice feels wrong. Evening: walked five kilometers to the grocery store, didn't need anything, bought sweets, walked back. Some days you don't fix the apathy — you outlast it on foot.
The body voted no. Took a scooter to Golden Gate Park anyway, sat on a bench at the Botanical Garden surrounded by cherry blossoms, and breathed for the first time in a week. Two strangers offered me coffee from their thermos on the way. Evening: a long walk along a bay with a friend. A seal surfaced. Ducks claimed the rocks. The sun dropped behind the hills and we kept going on the day I chose to rest.
Fifth slow morning in a row. Negotiated with myself about every step. Swam, walked to a cafe, then on impulse went to an AI art salon in a penthouse. Floor-to-ceiling windows, the city catching the sunset. At some point I plugged my laptop into the TV and showed the hippo. Someone asked how I make them. Someone wanted to subscribe. For the first time it didn't feel like a side project. It felt like the thing.
A week ago I made an AI film for one festival. The organizers never showed it. Today the energy was at the bottom — gray morning, gray code. Walked to a cafe, drew a comic, got on a bus. Submitted a short hippo animation at another festival. When it played, someone laughed. Two strangers walked up after. I can't pitch. I can't sell. But the hippo keeps showing up — even on days when I barely can.
Apathy since morning, hoarse voice, gray mood. Made oatmeal, did exercises out of habit, sat at the computer until evening. Then a message from my brother — handed him my coding workflow the day before, he'd solved in a single day what he couldn't figure out in two months. Mom loved the birthday comic, too. Some days you don't go anywhere. But you reach everyone who matters.
News from home that morning, the kind that sits in your chest. Stomach turning by noon. By seven, with no planning, I bought IMAX tickets — first time ever. A stranded astronaut tries to talk to an alien by drawing symbols. Nothing works. Then he switches to sound, and suddenly everything connects. Some days you can't push through by trying harder. You need to change the protocol entirely.
Spent the entire day transferring two weeks of notes into my own system. Audio recordings from walks. Chat fragments. Voice memos in a language I couldn't parse on first listen. Fourteen days of living, compressed into structured data. At three-thirty I brewed coffee, walked to a park bench, and sat. First time I left the apartment all day. Some days you live the story. Some days you file it.
Apartment needed cleaning, laundry needed doing, fridge had pre-cooked boxes. Microwaved fish for lunch, Thai chicken for dinner — the body recovered, the mind kept scrolling through domain names. Read in bed, watched a familiar show, drank herbal tea with chocolate. Some weeks you run at the world. Some Sundays you let the world run without you.
Walked from Fine Arts to Battery Lancaster to Baker Beach with friends. No agenda. No badges. No parking lots. At Baker Beach someone pulled out an inflatable couch and a thermos of drip coffee — the Golden Gate Bridge right there, doing its thing. Sat down. Didn't pitch anything. Some weeks end at a conference. The good ones end on an inflatable couch.
Returned the rental, took a bus across town. Sat in a barber's chair: haircut, straight razor shave, hot towel. The barber gave a thumbs up when it was done. After a week of pitching and proving yourself to rooms full of strangers, the reset is sitting still and letting someone else do the work.
Drove south to a film hackathon — four hours to build an AI short about the future. Made something personal. Too personal, maybe. The organizers never showed it on stage. Walked out with a quiet ache. Drove to the pool, then kept driving — to the ocean. Photographed strangers in golden light and AirDropped the photos to them — no names, no conversation, just pictures. Some days break you in half. Both halves are yours.
Third day of conferences. By noon the expo blur had set in — booths, badges, demos, repeat. Got in the Jeep and drove thirty minutes to a Mexican cafe with a counter and a line. Ordered a sandwich that had no business being that good. Three days of GPU clusters and frontier models, and the thing I'll remember is a torta on a side road.
Drove south again. Almond croissant before the expo floor. Two hours of speed-dating with booths — I came for frontier models and walked away with a free SUSE Linux t-shirt. Stood there a moment remembering my first Linux install at nineteen. Nobody tells you the real swag at an AI conference is nostalgia.
Rented a Jeep before sunrise and drove an hour south to a conference. Spent twenty minutes circling lots, finally found a spot. Inside: startup booths everywhere, conversations with a dozen companies before lunch. Walked out with a bag, socks, and a live plant — customs to be negotiated later. The conference was worth it. The parking was not.
Took a taxi to Embarcadero in the morning, six hours later walked out with a working pricing agent. Built it in a warehouse with arched windows and the Bay Bridge through them. Submitted the demo. Pitched. Didn't make the finals. Lesson noted: three minutes is thirty seconds of talking and the rest is showing.
Fog so thick the neighborhood disappeared. Walked twenty minutes through nothing — sidewalk, breath, my own shape ahead of me. Afternoon turned into infrastructure debugging for a hackathon I'd already half-committed to: organizers absent, API keys broken, Discord nearly empty. Made a checklist, ordered ramen, and decided tomorrow would happen anyway.
A robot arm in a SF warehouse was assembling pizzas — dough, sauce, toppings on a conveyor, no human touching any of it. Drove with a friend afterwards to a terrace, where two more turned up by sunset and the City Hall dome went gold. We clinked glasses like people who somehow ended up in the same city at the same time. Two weeks in town and I already had a rooftop.
Two hundred and fifty-four faces under fluorescent light, pizza going cold, English finding its footing again. Spotted a yellow jacket across the room and trusted the instinct — turned out he'd been places. We rode Caltrain home talking agents, shipping, the small honest sentences of someone who'd actually built things. First conversation in the Bay I walked away wanting to continue.
Clear sky over Daly City for the first time in days. Morning light through the window felt like permission. Wrapped up loose ends, sent the messages I'd been postponing. A Tuesday that tasted like a fresh start.
Overcast and muted. Worked in noir tones — dark coffee, dim screen, amber desk lamp. The kind of Monday where you keep your head down and trust the rhythm to carry you through.
A quiet day with small discoveries. Drew something, coded something, let the afternoon meander. Daly City is growing familiar — the fog, the hills, the particular silence of a residential street at dusk.
Rough morning melted into an inspired afternoon. A long walk through Daly City fog that burned off into golden hour. Walk-powered clarity — the best debugging tool money can't buy.
Zombie dedication. Worked through exhaustion on details that no one will notice but everyone would miss. The perfectionism trap — knowing it's a trap and walking in anyway, with quiet dignity.
Brain overloaded from the week. Friday planning mode kicked in — lists, priorities, the illusion of control. San Francisco sprawled outside while I tried to fit the next month into a spreadsheet.
California sunshine and big meetings. Inspired by morning, drained by evening. The city hummed with possibility while I watched from the passenger seat, absorbing a new timezone and a dozen new faces.
Sick day in a new city. Unpacked slowly, napped deeply, watched the rain through unfamiliar windows. Daly City fog wrapped around the apartment like a blanket. Domestic and quiet — exactly what the jet lag ordered.
Valencia airport at four in the morning. Two flights, three countries, and a rough that followed me across the Atlantic. Landed in San Francisco to fog and a two-hour passport line. Found ramen in Daly City and called it home.
Opened up after days of being closed off. Rain outside, something clearing inside. Bold outlines and bright colors — the kind of day that feels illustrated, like a page from a comic about recovery.
Relaxed Sunday, a quiet victory lap after a long week. Cozy and unhurried — cooked, read, let the afternoon stretch. Sometimes the win is just arriving at rest.
February 2026
An introspective Saturday. Sat with thoughts that usually get drowned out by doing. Learned something about attention and the way it fractures. Warm watercolors and amber light through the window.
Low energy, showing up anyway. The pool helped — water has a way of resetting the internal compass. Grey to muted grey to a flash of bright cyan by day's end.
Anxiety crept in before dawn and stayed. One of those days where the day feels like a write-off but you show up anyway. Moody skies matched the mood. Pushed through it all, waiting for tomorrow.
Steady and productive from a cozy cafe. Overcast skies, warm drink, the Mediterranean rhythm of unhurried efficiency. Some days the best strategy is just showing up.
Brain woke me before the light did — code lists looping on repeat, refusing the off switch. Gave up after fifteen minutes, brewed tea, opened the book I'd been close to finishing. By the time the city stirred, the last page was turned and the day felt already earned. Some restlessness only resolves when you stop fighting it.
El Saler beach under Mediterranean sun. Bliss is a simple word for what the coast does to a restless mind. Walked until the sand turned to rocks, then turned around and did it again.
A full Saturday — morning muted and slow, then an exhibition that jolted everything awake. Vivid colors, strange sculptures, the kind of art that rearranges your thoughts. Evening amber and tired feet.
Rage-productive. Turned frustration into fuel and burned through the task list with terrifying efficiency. By sunset the anger had transmuted into quiet triumph. Clear sky, twenty degrees. The world didn't know what hit it.
Market colors in the morning, office blue in the afternoon, amber evening light. Exhausted but warm. The day had three acts, each with its own palette.
A warm day, the kind that tricks you into thinking spring arrived early. Worked from a cafe, let the hours pass gently. Some days you don't fight the clock — you just walk alongside it.
Inspiration struck early and didn't let go. Worked in a flow state until the golden light shifted. Valencia does something to the creative process — maybe it's the warmth, maybe it's the rhythm.
Sunrise at the beach. The kind of morning where you arrive before the light does and watch it fill in the world piece by piece. Warm friends in the afternoon, candlelight by evening.
Saturday market — shrimp and conversation with strangers. Spent the afternoon planning a trip across the ocean while the city hummed with couples and flowers. Cooked dinner, opened wine, played music. A Valentine's that wasn't about Valentine's at all.
Friday the thirteenth lived up to its name. Zombie morning, survived through laps in the pool and a mission to find the perfect dessert. Found it in a place I'd walked past a hundred times.
A day that broke apart and rebuilt itself. Scrapped a plan I'd been holding onto, found something better underneath. The kind of transformation that only happens when you stop protecting the wrong thing.
Rough morning — the body said no, but the day demanded yes. Pushed through on stubborn will and coffee. By evening, something shifted and the energy came back. Valencia's warm wind helped.
Twenty-three degrees in February. The terrace was calling, so I worked outside for the first time this year. Warm breeze, laptop glow mixing with sunlight. Didn't want to go inside.
Sunday — rain showers and rest. Cooked a proper meal for the first time in days. Read in the chair by the window, watching the city through water-streaked glass.
Overcast Saturday. Caught up on the project that had been nagging me all week. Took a long walk after, no destination. Found a new bakery, ordered the first thing I saw.
Light rain and wind. The tail end of the week, running on fumes. Finished what needed finishing, left the rest for Monday. A small rebellion against the to-do list.
Windy and overcast. Steady work day, nothing dramatic. Sometimes the best days are the ones without a story — just the quiet rhythm of getting things done.
Hurricane winds shook the windows while sunshine broke through the clouds. Worked through the chaos, both inside and out. Valencia's weather matched the energy — dramatic and unpredictable.
Rain and wind all day. The kind of weather that traps you with your thoughts. Channeled it into deep work — the sort where hours vanish and you surface surprised it's dark.
Monday morning, fresh start. Dove into the week with more ambition than caffeine. New tasks, new problems, same desk. By evening, small victories stacked up.
Light rain showers. Sunday energy — part rest, part restlessness. Caught up on reading, sketched out an idea that had been floating around. Let the afternoon be unstructured.
February arrived with overcast skies and wind. Started a new sprint, mapped out the week. Energy low but the direction was clear — sometimes that's enough.
January 2026
End of the month. Took stock of what shipped and what didn't. The list was longer than expected on both sides. Made peace with it over a late dinner.
Overcast and windy. Hunkered down and powered through tasks, one after another. Sometimes productivity is just stubbornness with a deadline.
Morning showers gave way to a warm afternoon — twenty-two degrees in January. Worked from a cafe with the door open. The breeze carried the smell of orange trees.
Moderate rain all day, the kind that makes you cancel outdoor plans. Dove deep into a project that needed attention. By evening the rain stopped, and I stepped out for ten minutes of clean air.
Slight rain cleared by midday. Back at the desk, picking up threads from before the trip. The work felt different now — lighter, somehow. Evening walk through puddles and street light reflections.
Quiet Sunday. Unpacked, did laundry, tried to ease back into the week ahead. Cooked something simple and ate it slowly, standing by the window.
The drive back to Valencia — snow giving way to wind, then sudden sunshine near the coast. Watched the landscape transform in reverse. Arrived home feeling like I'd been gone a week.
Woke to deep snow and wind rattling the windows. Bundled up and walked through the silence. Back inside, the laptop and a blanket and hours that passed without counting.
Heavy snow outside, the kind that muffles everything. Spent the day in a mountain cabin working and watching the world turn white. Hot drinks and cold air — a good trade.
Packed the car and drove to Granada with a friend. Two hours of shifting landscapes — plains giving way to mountains and olive groves. Reached the Alhambra by afternoon, the kind of view that makes you stop talking.
Ruzafa in the morning light. Walked to a new cafe, ordered without checking the menu. Spent the day moving between screens and streets, the city filling in the gaps between tasks.
Monday hit different — started slow, built momentum through the afternoon. A new idea took shape between coffee refills. Left the coworking space feeling like something was beginning.
Woke up with that rare feeling of accomplishment from yesterday still lingering. Channeled the adrenaline into a marathon coding session. By nightfall, three things worked that hadn't before.
Saturday without a plan. Wandered through the market, bought things I didn't need, and sat in a plaza reading for an hour. The kind of day that recharges everything.
Friday energy — somewhere between relief and exhaustion. Coworking in the morning, a long lunch break watching the city move. Wrapped up early and let the evening be slow.
The pool at dawn, then straight to the laptop. A full day of back-to-back calls and debugging. Ended with a walk through the neighborhood, the kind where you don't pick a direction.
Rain kept me indoors, which suited the mood. Long hours at the desk working on an animation that refused to cooperate. Finally cracked it after dark, rewarded myself with leftovers and silence.
Raced to the pool on my bike only to realize I forgot my swimming trunks. Stood there for a moment, laughed at myself, and cycled back. Breakfast at Park Central — green tea and quiche, watching the morning wake up around me.
Dark streets and coffee on the way to the coworking space. Hours of deep focus, the kind where you forget to eat. Met a friend in the evening at a warm cafe — conversation better than anything I coded all day.
Cycled to the pool in the grey morning cold, pushed through laps of crawl. Spent the rest of the day glued to screens, building things that may never ship. By evening, herbal tea and half an episode of something familiar felt like enough.