Every page below contains exactly the same content — the brain at 1,389 µm³, four ganglia nobody had measured, the coincidence, the twelve-hour pulse, the unc-86 switch, and the same caveats. Only the language changes.
They are deliberately as far apart as I could make them. Several are probably wrong for us. That is the point: the ones that are obviously wrong make the right one easier to see.
None of these is linked from the site. They are not proposals to ship — each is a position, argued at full commitment, so we can find out which one sounds like us.
The micrograph you were blown away by, as a website. Magenta-cast void, three emission channels, white hairline leaders with bold labels.
Claim: the apparatus of science is already beautiful — stop hiding it.Victorian natural history. A pinned plate, a letterpress caption, a typewritten determination slip, marginalia. Written in period voice.
Claim: we belong to a lineage two hundred years long.The page as a machine's readout. Fixed-width fields, a live trace, a run log that types itself out including the failures.
Claim: you are reading an instrument, not a document.The gallery. Enormous space, one object at a time, lit, with a small wall label set apart from it. Nothing is ever crowded.
Claim: restraint is respect. Our renders deserve room.An engineering drawing of an animal. Dimension lines with arrowheads, a schedule of parts, revision notes, a title block.
Claim: it is a machine, and we have the drawings.Photocopied, cut-and-paste, mis-registered spot inks, display type that shouts. Failures printed on purpose in a torn box.
Claim: science locked away deserves to be shouted about.Margin notes instead of footnotes, small multiples, sparklines. Nothing behind a click, nothing collapsed, the whole argument visible.
Claim: trusting the reader with all of it is the respect.A comic. Nine panels, a narrator in yellow caption boxes, one sound effect, and a page at the back where we admit things.
Claim: sequence with a narrator is how anyone learns anything.A scan is a grid of cubes, and so is Minecraft. Hotbar of stats, block-by-block progress bars, an inventory table, hard pixel edges.
Claim: the most-shared thing we made was cubes. Stop treating that as a novelty.The animal as an astronomical object. Drifting starfield, catalogue designations, constellation lines joining the ganglia, magnitudes.
Claim: it has survived vacuum. Give it the reverence we give distant things.