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The construction industry has one of the highest suicide rates of any major industry in the country, second only to mining, according the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. Add in drug overdoses, where construction workers die at a greater rate than workers in any other industry, and a bleak picture emerges of a population in crisis. Construction is already among the most dangerous jobs in the country, with about 1,000 people dying each year from work-related injuries, more than any other industry. But five times as many workers, 5,100, died by suicide, and 15,900 died from drug overdoses, in 2023, according to an analysis of the most recent federal data by the Center for Construction Research and Training, an occupational safety organization.
People: Non-AI lifestyle. Eye tests for older drivers. White House and prescription drugs. Teaching goes into paper.
Tech: Fluid gears. Self sanitizing door handle. TSMC clients. ICE and big data. Kinetic drones swarm. Lead in humans.
Planet: (R)evolution. Canada-US evolution. Weird brainless animal. Frog sauna.
AI: Risks outweigh benefits in education. Doing code is cheap now. Anduril grand prix. AI in 2026.
And Games Workshop.Nerdy rabbit hole: ASCII-generation.
Threads of Connection
Elias Walsh was a bit of an oddity, even for a tech whiz working in the Silicon Valley corridors of power where products outnumbered qualms. He possessed a fascination for relics of the past, an adjective applicable to everything from vinyl records to the notion that kids should occasionally know how to actually read a book rather than have their algorithms spoon-feed them summaries fueled by AI. Today, however, he was locked in a debate with a self-sanitary door handle, the latest marvel of photocatalytic technology. To his dismay, it refused to budge, as if the very model of hygiene had manifested a mind of its own.
“It makes sense, you know,” Elias reflected as he wrestled with the handle. “Perhaps it’s exhausted from perpetual scrubbing—now that I think about it, I’d feel like I’m cleaning my soul every time someone touched me.”^1 With a pop, the door swung open, revealing the stark reality outside: a world where generative AI had infiltrated everything, from education to entertainment, but failed spectacularly at bringing back the warmth of human interaction. She wouldn’t respond to his prayers for sanity, but his long-lost analog hobbies might just offer a solution.
The irony was thick enough to slice with a butter knife. Just the week prior, the announcement reverberated across news channels: “Canada cuts ties with the U.S., begins new chapter with China.” This geopolitical shake seemed to strike a chord with those who craved collaboration over competition—a sentiment Elias held close, particularly as his eyes roamed over flyers for upcoming craft fairs. Hand-knitted mittens, anyone?
As he ambled to the nearest coffee shop with a distinct air of rebellion—coffee first, soul-searching later—he overheard hushed conversations on eco-political shifts. A well-loved professor at Yale had started requiring textbooks instead of PDFs to foster deep engagement (imagine!), while a scientist once dismissed for dabbling in the obscure now suggested that learned fears could be passed on, like a gnarly old sweater knitted with resentments from the lineage. “Makes you wonder what we inherit,” muttered a barista, scooping brown foam from a scone, which, for all intents, could succeed in eliciting smiles if only for its enticing aroma.
Just across town, however, a personal setback sank like a weight on Elias’s shoulders: the ever-climbing suicide rates for the working-age population, a statistic that prompted another coffee—one dark enough to descend into existential dread. Where technology had promised connection, it often led instead to isolation, a game everyone was losing, especially those in high-stress jobs. Games Workshop’s crackdown on AI in creative endeavors was indicative of more than just nostalgia; it was a desperate leap towards retaining a semblance of authenticity in a world where everything seemed bleached and sterilized.^2
Lost in thought, he stumbled cheek first into a self-sanitizing door handle again. The irony sent him into a chuckle. Here he was, marooned at the intersection of technological marvel and human despair. “Good day, fine door. Fancy another round of our little tango?”
Then it hit him—maybe the world needed a little more Xenoturbella; a simple being, unbothered by complex systems, thriving in depths unknown. If the future strung together AI and geopolitics like an ill-suited bouquet, perhaps it was time to delve into the depths ourselves, for a real shake-up. Perhaps the key was not to accelerate the hustle or commodify creativity but rather to gather around a table with friends, an open book, and a knitting needle eager to pierce the digital fog that clung ominously to their lives.
As Elias pondered this newly revitalized mission, he smiled at a child scribbling pictures on the sidewalk—a fleeting, paper-scattered rebellion against the monolithic shadows of screens creeping into every crack of modern existence. “Yeah,” he thought, “let’s mend some old-fashioned fabric here—one stitch at a time.”^3
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^1 Hindsight really is 20/20; just when you think you’re outsmarting your machinery, they pull a fast one, huh?
^2 If only society could treat creativity like a fine wine instead of a product to be slammed down in a drive-thru.
^3 And if things get sticky, we can always turn to those self-cleaning handles! 🧼