20260201
“In 1942, Jorge Luis Borges told the story of “Funes The Memorious,” who, after a horseback riding accident, gained perfect, total, infinite memory. But what seemed like a gift quickly became a curse. Infinite information utterly overwhelmed him. He couldn’t think, speak or live normally. The infinite didn’t expand his world. It crushed him. […] In every myth, the lesson is the same: The path to the infinite is the path to madness.” (War on attention)
People: Capsule hotels. Digital detox. Fart walks. Maxxing friction. Attention war. Phone based retirement.
Futures: Some views into 2026 (and some trends). Politics of solarpunk. Imagining the future. And some more reading.
Random: Silver vs oil costs.
Business: Simplifier in chief. Is busy lazy.
Tech: Gas tank arrow story. Lego smart bricks.
Nature: Knee joints regeneration. Growing teeth again? Fish-inspired filters. King of the salmons ;) Antimicrobial resistance.
AI: and drones. Where are logs? Audio. LLM problems in humans.
The Unsung Algorithm of Connection
In a world where every human seemed to be a book of mismatched chapters, one could hardly complain about a little confusion: words danced on screens with AI models that could converse as fluidly as a babbling brook, while humans muddled through dialogue wearing an expression akin to someone who’d just tried to explain the theory of relativity to a toaster. The only things less coherent than the average conversation were perhaps the signals of a GPS system overwrought with quantum glitches; before that received its upgrade, it was as useful as a compass in a magnet factory.
Amidst this miscommunication crisis, Julian—an aspiring chatbot designer—took refuge in his capsule hotel, Zedwell, where narrow sleeping pods offered privacy but not a shred of room for personal growth. It was a snug option for those wishing to avoid London’s lavishly overpriced accommodations. Yet, Julian felt flatter than a soda left open too long. Reducing life to a capsule should have been a convenience, but in practice, it had him longing for the joys of a full-fledged existential crisis.
Something was amiss, and it wasn’t merely the mixture of his avocado toast coupled with the upsurge of “sand crime” town hall meetings that cluttered his social calendar. The rhythmic taps of an AI audio assistant made his advances toward deeper human connections futile, like trying to ignite a flame by rubbing two marshmallows together. Friends would float into the office only to disappear into the digital ether as they binged on TED Talks like children gorging on candy—an ironic twist given their collective flurry of busy lives.
Then there was the unexpected reality check delivered by a squirrel of a thought: what if technology had not just sidestepped individuals but left them at brunch with their own introspections? Julian’s musings collided with the irony of Benjamin Franklin’s letters on flatulence. After all, if one could turn the inescapable human experience of embarrassment into a political discourse—or at least derive some health benefits from a casual “fart walk”—was it truly a stretch to consider that meaningful connections awaited beyond a screen?
As he walked to the café for a less-than-rejuvenating ‘fart walk’ after his meal, Julian glimpsed an old man nestled on a bench, utterly entranced by his phone, while the world flitted past him like a lively circus. Old folks had begun to wield technology like it was a second-life talisman, corralling anxieties about the future.
“Oi!” Julian called out. “What’s more distracting, your device or the universe?” The old man looked up, chuckling as though he’d discovered a great philosophical truth in Julian’s clumsy interjection. “Let me show you the future,” he replied, not missing a beat, leading Julian to the recently proposed ‘Future Signals’ event—a networking gala promising an exploration of dreamers committed to architecting uncharted futures.
Amid the clinking of coffee cups and the excited banter of like-minded oddballs—who were all rather sensible in their insane aspirations to democracy guilty of dreaming—it became clear that while AI and gadgetry might simplify life, nothing could substitute for human connection.
Everyone in earshot clapped as a woman began a surprisingly capricious soliloquy about using chirping crickets to improve mood, citing biological studies as vividly as a conspiracy theorist at a family dinner. Laughter bubbled like freshly carbonated water, and in that moment, Julian understood—not every interaction had to be a systematic algorithm; sometimes, the best algorithms in life were just a mixture of laughs, strange ideas, and the occasional breakdown of modern technology’s inscrutable language.
And thus, the young aspiring designer, armed now not with a toolbox of one-liners for a chatbot but with the basic human instinct of humor, surged forth into the chaotic cacophony of what was called “real” life—an irrational yet comforting dance between the irrational and the unseen perils of technology. ***The art of human connection, it appeared, would be the rarest and most valuable innovation of all.***