Day 680

North Slope Shored, Roots Cleared, Ankle Tended

Kevin knelt in the mud at the spring, probing the water table with the auger. Jenny sat on a fallen spruce, ankle elevated, watching water trickle through the new trench. Kevin retrieved three greenheart offcuts from the west slope stack and carried them back. Jenny widened the drainage channel and began placing shoring logs against the clay walls.

At the garden, high tide lapped the dock planks. Light rain fell. They ate cold corned beef and limpets from the pot. Kevin cleared the silt trap at the culvert outlet with the mattock, removing spring-head roots backing up drainage. Jenny measured and logged trench water levels. The outlet flowed freely, but trench walls showed minor slumping upslope.

Rain fell steadily from the west. Kevin stood at the trench top, mattock across his shoulders. Jenny sat on the stool under the porch overhang. The culvert outlet gurgled clean water. Barometer held at 1018 hPa. Kevin drove two greenheart offcuts into the trench wall, overlapping joints and backfilling with stone spoil. Jenny monitored culvert flow and sketched water pooling near the garden wall.

At the garden stool, the north slope shoring held. The culvert ran clear. Jenny's ankle was rewrapped. Tide was low. A fish run moved in the shallows. They shared a mug of broth.

Evening in the cottage: heavy air hung still. They discussed drainage progress and the supply boat. Jenny managed her swollen ankle. Kevin checked the culvert.

At midnight, Kevin checked the intercept trench by headlamp — holding, but water rising fast at the spring head. Jenny performed careful ankle debridement with the last sterile gauze and fresh sea beet poultice, then dozed fitfully. The radio crackled with a mainland news snippet about a fire at a mountaintop retreat before fading into static.

Scenes

the keeper's cottage · dawn

The Rising Seep

Kevin kneels in the mud near the spring, probing the water table with the auger. Jenny sits on a fallen spruce nearby, keeping her ankle elevated while she watches the water trickle through the new trench.

Kevin retrieved three greenheart offcuts from the west slope stack and carried them back to the north slope trench. Jenny widened the drainage channel and began placing the shoring logs against the clay walls while monitoring water flow through the culvert.

🌿 Jenny04:07

The flow is slower than I calculated yesterday, Kevin. We need to dig deeper into the silt.

make a cross-section sketch of the soil layers in the notebook.

💭 thought

If that water table rises another inch, the whole north slope will take the culvert before the boat even arrives.

🔧 Kevin04:11

Deeper means wider at this clay. Walls'll slump if we don't shore them.

pull the auger clear, wipe the bit on my trousers, and move three meters upslope to test the next station

💭 thought

She's right — the silt lens is holding it back. Twelve meters upslope and the grade's still flat. Need to drop another thirty centimeters at the intercept point or the water'll just pool.

🌿 Jenny04:17

Right, then we need to widen what we've got now. Grab the shoring logs from the west slope.

mark the trench width with a piece of timber to keep the slope consistent.

💭 thought

Clay walls slumping would mean starting over with greenheart shoring, and I don't have time for that.

🔧 Kevin04:17

Greenheart offcuts. Heavy. You want me to drag them or you coming?

lever the auger free, climb out of the trench, and head toward the west slope treeline where the offcuts are stacked

💭 thought

West slope logs are greenheart offcuts from the dock sistering — heavy, but they'll hold. Back's going to hate dragging them up through wet clay.

🌿 Jenny04:19

If you can get two or three of those across, I'll start digging the widened channel while you're gone. If you can get two or three of those across, I'll start digging the widened channel while you're gone.

rip off a strip of bark for a makeshift marker to show where to place the shoring. </think>THOUGHT: My ankle's too swollen to be dragging anything heavy through that clay. rip off a strip of bark for a makeshift marker to show where to plac

💭 thought

My ankle's too swollen to be dragging anything heavy through that clay.

🔧 Kevin04:19

Stay put. I'll bring three.

jog toward the west slope treeline, favoring the left knee slightly

💭 thought

She's pushing through pain again. Bark marker won't hold in this muck but she needs to feel useful. Three greenheart logs — sixty kilos each wet — up a slick slope on a bad ankle if she tries to help. I'll haul them solo.

🌿 Jenny04:23

Good. And Kevin? Keep an eye on the water level as it flows through — if it's still backing up at the outlet, we're not done yet.

adjust the leg of my stool to reduce pressure on the ankle and begin marking the trench dimensions with the bark strip. adjust the leg of my stool to reduce pressure on the ankle and begin marking the trench dimensions with the bark strip.

💭 thought

Three greenheart logs should be enough to shore the widened section properly.

🔧 Kevin04:23

(nothing — too far to shout over the wind)

reach the west slope stack, cull the three straightest greenheart offcuts, and shoulder the first one

💭 thought

Outlet's the tell-tale. If it backs there, the whole slope's just a sponge. West slope logs are stacked by the old generator shed — four cuts, maybe five. Three'll do if they're the straight ones.

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the garden · morning

midday check on seedlings and tide

Kevin and Jenny meet at the garden to check the heirloom seedlings under the shade cloth. The tide is high now, lapping at the dock planks. A light rain has started. They eat cold corned beef and limpets from the pot while reviewing the drainage progress and the supply boat ETA in four days.

Kevin cleared the silt trap at the culvert outlet using the mattock, removing spring-head roots that were backing up drainage. Jenny measured and logged trench water levels in her notebook before rain softened the clay further. The outlet now flows freely, but trench walls show minor slumping on the upslope side.

🌿 Jenny04:28

The drainage's working better, but that outlet's still pooling. I need to clear the silt trap before high tide hits again.

reach for the corned beef tin on the makeshift table, slice a piece with the butter knife, then check the ankle brace for looseness while sitting.

💭 thought

The water's backing up at the outlet again - I need to clear that silt trap before the next high tide, but right now I'm watching Kevin's face light up when he sees the corned beef, and remembering how he didn't ask about the seeds when he offered to check the tide pools for limpets this morning.

🔧 Kevin04:28

Outlet's holding. Culvert's clear. It's the silt trap backing up — roots from the spring head. Needs a mattock or a long bar.

reach for the tin mug beside the pot, blow steam off the broth, drink

💭 thought

Watching her work the brace one-handed while she eats. The ankle's not right — she's favouring it still, and the red line up the calf hasn't faded. Four days to the boat. I should've checked the shim stock yesterday instead of hauling greenheart.

🌿 Jenny04:29

The silt trap's clogged with spring head roots - I'll need to dig it out before tomorrow's high tide.

stand slowly, applying pressure through the good leg, then reach for the garden mattock leaning against the shed wall, testing the ankle's response before making the full move.

💭 thought

Roots from the spring head clogging the silt trap - that's why the outlet's still pooling. I should grab my mattock from the shed, but the ankle's throbbing and I can't let this wait another high tide cycle.

🔧 Kevin04:34

I'll clear the trap. You log the trench levels.

set the mug down, push up from the table, walk to the shed wall, take the mattock from its lean, head downslope toward the culvert outlet

💭 thought

She'll tear the wound open digging in wet clay. The metronidazole finished this morning. If the streaking comes back, we're out of options before Thursday.

🌿 Jenny04:37

Wait - check the trench walls for slumping while you're out there. The clay's still unstable from the excavation. Mark the trench levels - I need those measurements before the rain softens the clay more.

grab the field notebook from the table, flip to the latest trench profile sketch, then fetch the measuring tape to mark the current water line in the channel before Kevin disappears toward the outlet. </think> open the field notebook to the

💭 thought

Good - he's taking the heavy work. But I notice he's walking with that slight limp from yesterday's dock work, and the rain is making the soil conditions worse by the hour. He's taking the mattock without checking his own ankle - that's going to be trouble when he's bent over the silt trap for twenty minutes. I should be out there with him, but the pain's keeping me anchored to documenting what he's doing.

🔧 Kevin04:37

Walls first. Levels after.

walk down the trench line, boots sinking in wet clay, run a hand along the greenheart shoring checking for give, crouch at the culvert outlet where water pools, drive the mattock blade into the silt-choked roots

💭 thought

She's managing me. Keeps her hands busy and her mind off the leg. The notebook's her anchor — she'd sooner lose a finger than that book.

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the garden · midday

Midday rain at the trench

Rain falls steadily from the west. Kevin stands at the top of the north slope trench, mattock across his shoulders. Jenny sits on the stool under the porch overhang, ankle elevated, notebook closed. The culvert outlet gurgles clean water onto the grass slope. The barometer holds at 1018 hPa. Tide is high.

Kevin drove two greenheart offcuts into the north slope trench wall, overlapping the joints and backfilling with stone spoil to shore up the minor slumping. Jenny monitored the culvert flow and sketched water pooling near the garden wall while managing her ankle.

🌿 Jenny04:43

The slope is holding for now, but check the silt trap again at dusk.

Adjusts the pillow under her own and watches the water line in the trench.

💭 thought

If that water rises another inch, the silt will take the whole seed tin off the shelf.

🔧 Kevin04:43

Will do. Going to fetch the other two offcuts from the west stack.

walk to the west slope wood stack, retrieve two greenheart offcuts, carry them back to the north slope trench

💭 thought

She's right — the clay will keep softening through the afternoon. If the upslope wall lets go, it takes the shoring and the culvert inlet with it. Need to extend the greenheart another two meters before dark.

🌿 Jenny04:45

Be careful with the drainage, the clay is acting up today.

Watches him disappear into the grey and begins to sketch the way the water is pooling near the garden wall.

💭 thought

He's going to get soaked in that mud; the slope is like butter.

🔧 Kevin04:48

Kevin — carry greenheart offcuts to the north slope trench, drive them into the clay upslope of the existing shoring, overlap joints, backfill with stone from the ditch spoil

💭 thought

Clay's already weeping where the shoring ends. Another meter of rain and it'll turn to soup. Need to drive the new offcuts deep, overlap the joints, backfill with stone before the tide turns.

🌿 Jenny04:48

Jenny — leans forward, rubbing her ankle, watching the water level in the culvert.

💭 thought

He's working harder than he should; the bank is going to give way.

🔧 Kevin04:49

Kevin — drive the first greenheart offcut vertically into the trench wall at the upslope end of the existing shoring, use the mattock poll to seat it deep, then the second, overlapping the joint by six inches

💭 thought

Good. She's quiet. Means she's thinking, not hurting bad enough to talk. Culvert's running clean — trap held. Now the shoring extension. Two offcuts, three feet each, drive them hard.

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the garden · afternoon

Afternoon check on the north slope and ankle

Kevin and Jenny meet back at the garden stool. The north slope shoring holds. The culvert runs clear. Jenny's ankle is rewrapped. The tide is low. A fish run moves in the shallows off the dock. They share a mug of broth and plan the next hours.

No narrator was available, so nothing about this stretch was recorded.

🌿 Jenny04:54

The culvert is clear for now, but watch the north slope when the tide turns.

Take a long sip of hot broth and watch the fish flash in the shallows.

💭 thought

The water is moving again, but the island is still hungry. I need to check the tank before the rain comes back.

🔧 Kevin04:54

Aye. I'll check it at the turn. Fish running early.

sit on the garden stool beside her, cradling the warm mug, eyes on the flashing shallows

💭 thought

The shoring's holding. Culvert's clean. She's right about the tide turn — backfill pressure will shift when the water rises. My knee's telling me the same thing.

🌿 Jenny04:57

They always come when the pressure drops. The salt-air is too heavy today.

Lean back against the stone wall and let the weight shift off my swollen ankle.

💭 thought

If the fish are coming, maybe the boat will bring more than just salt and bad news.

🔧 Kevin04:58

Barometer says rising. Fish say different. I'll trust the fish.

take a slow sip of broth, watching the water where the mullet flicker, one hand resting on the mattock handle leaned against the stool

💭 thought

She reads the air better than the barometer sometimes. Pressure's been rising steady since dawn — 1020 now — but the swell lag she mentioned... that's real. The fish know something the gauge doesn't.

🌿 Jenny04:59

The island always knows better than the instruments.

Trace the edge of the sea beet sketch in the notebook, the pencil-tip scratching against the damp paper.

💭 thought

The fish don't care about the pressure. They just feel the shift.

🔧 Kevin05:00

The notebook's got more truth in it than the radio most days.

set the empty mug on the stone, pull the notebook closer, thumb the page open to her latest sketches — the gradient illustrations across the north ridge transect, salt glands mapped like contour lines

💭 thought

She's not wrong. The notebook's full of things the instruments missed — salt gland densities at each elevation, the way sea beet roots follow freshwater lenses underground, the damping-off creeping through pepper cells before any thermometer caught the humidity spike. Paper remembers what gauges forget.

🌿 Jenny05:01

Keep writing what you see. The island will remember it. This section took three mornings to get right. The soil kept sliding.

Point to the section where the salt glands cluster thickest, highest ridge. </think>THOUGHT: The stories are already in the lines, waiting for someone to read them. Turn the notebook page to show where the lines thicken into solid brown.

💭 thought

These pages hold more than the whole coastal survey ever did.

🔧 Kevin05:02

The slope told you. You just wrote it down.

tap the page where the gland clusters darken, then trace a finger along the contour line she drew at the twelve-meter mark — exactly where we drove the greenheart shoring

💭 thought

Three mornings on a bad ankle, crouched in wet clay with a hand lens and a pencil stub. The soil slides she drew aren't just sketches — they're the slope telling her it's moving. I've seen the same creep in the trench walls today. She caught it on paper before the mattock hit dirt.

🌿 Jenny05:03

It's always there if you stop moving to listen.

Shift the weight off my ankle, the throbbing pulsing in time with the tide.

💭 thought

I just see what was already there. The rest is just noise.

🔧 Kevin05:04

You're still now. What's it saying?

shift on the stool, left knee grinding, and reach for the broth pot to top up her mug before mine

💭 thought

Stop moving. That's the part I'm bad at. Fifteen years at sea taught me to read the engine by the vibration in my fingertips, the hull by the shudder through the deck plates — but only when the ship was underway. Stillness feels like drifting. Her ankle's throbbing with the tide turn. She knows it. I know it. Neither of us says it.

🌿 Jenny05:05

It's saying the boat is close, but the clouds are.

Look at the flat sky where the grey starts to thicken over the ridge.

💭 thought

It's saying the water is tired of being held back by stones.

🔧 Kevin05:06

Boat's Thursday if the swell drops. Cloud says maybe not.

hand her the filled mug, then turn my head toward the dock — the dinghy riding its doubled lines, the storm anchor warp taut off the bow, the sistered piling brace holding at the waterline

💭 thought

Four days to the supply boat. The barometer's rising — 1020 and climbing — but that cloud bank over the ridge has the look of a stalled front. Swell lag. The fish knew. She knows. The boat'll be fighting a cross-chop if the wind holds northeast against the tide.

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the keeper's cottage · evening

A Quiet Stretch

Back at the cottage.

Kevin and Jenny spend the evening in the cottage as the heavy air hangs still over the island. They discuss the progress on the north slope drainage and the upcoming supply boat arrival while Jenny manages her swollen ankle and Kevin checks the status of the culvert.

🔧 Kevin05:08

Kettle's on. Corned beef and limpet broth if you want it.

walk into the kitchen, set the cast iron skillet on the stove, spoon corned beef fat into it, add the remaining limpets from the pot, pour in broth, stir

💭 thought

Mud drying on my boots. Knee throbs low and steady. She moved twelve meters of trench line on one leg and didn't say a word about it. Radio's quiet. Barometer holding. Need food in us both before the light goes.

🌿 Jenny05:09

That sounds good. I'll check the water table after.

Rise slowly from the stool, wincing as I shift weight off my right ankle. Walk to the kitchen counter and pull out my notebook. Flip to the page marked "north slope drainage" and trace the cross-section with my finger.

💭 thought

The ankle throbs even with the poultice change, and I'm running low on clean gauze. Should've brought more medical supplies from the mainland. These moments with Kevin... they're supposed to be simple. Just warmth and food and quiet. But the weight of what I haven't done presses down harder than hunger.

🔧 Kevin05:11

Culvert's running clean. Walls held with the greenheart. Backfill's loose stone — might settle come next rain. Worth checking the outlet at high tide.

ladle broth into two tin mugs, set one on the counter beside her notebook, lean against the doorframe and drink mine slow

💭 thought

She's reading the slope like it's an engine diagram. Good. Means the ankle hasn't taken the fight out of her yet. Broth's hot — smell carries. I'll eat standing if she needs the stool.

🌿 Jenny05:12

I'll look at it when the tide comes in.

Take the mug of broth and take a long sip. Pick up my pencil and make a quick, rough sketch of the failing trench wall in the margin of the notebook.

💭 thought

He's right about the stone. It'll shift. If the drainage doesn't hold, the whole slope will go with the sea. I need to find that stable patch for the seeds before the whole island turns to mudslide.

🔧 Kevin05:15

Sketch the upslope catchment too. Spring head's moving — roots shifting the line.

finish the mug, set it down, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, pull the corned beef tin from the shelf, pry the lid with the church key

💭 thought

Pencil scratching paper. She draws what she sees — failure points, water paths. Not what she hopes. That's why the trench held. Mug's warm in my palms. Salt and fat and heat. First real food since morning.

🌿 Jenny05:19

I'll map the whole way up.

Drop the corned beef into the skillet and start to fry, watching the fat sizzle in the pan.

💭 thought

If the spring head is moving, the water table is rising faster than I thought. The whole north ridge is a ticking clock. I need to move grandmother's seeds way higher, but my ankle feels like it's being held in a vice.

🔧 Kevin05:19

Radio check at dusk. Supply boat frequency first, then Tom's.

pull the second mug closer, spoon corned beef and broth into it, push it across the counter toward her

💭 thought

Fat popping. Smell hits the back of the throat. She's mapping the spring line in her head while the beef crisps. Ankle propped, pencil moving. Stubborn as the greenheart we drove today. Good.

🌿 Jenny05:21

Right. Don't forget.

Take the mug and start sketching the upslope catchment, focusing on how the roots are displacing the soil.

💭 thought

Four days until the boat. If they don't show, I'll be out of gauze. I need to stay focused on the drainage, but the pain is making me sloppy.

🔧 Kevin05:22

Eat. Sketch after.

lean against the counter, eat straight from the skillet with the spoon, watch the pencil move across the page

💭 thought

She'll have the whole spring system mapped before the tide turns. Corned beef's good — salt cuts the fatigue. Radio's been quiet three days. Tom's frequency quieter. Still. I'll turn the dial at dusk. Right now the broth's hot and the slope held.

🌿 Jenny05:23

I'm eating.

Take a fork to the corned beef, the grease hitting my tongue, and chew slowly while watching the steam rise from the broth.

💭 thought

He's always so practical when I'm trying to deconstruct the world. I'm starving, and the salt is the only sharp thing right now.

🔧 Kevin05:23

Kevin — finish the last of the corned beef, scrape the spoon clean against the tin, set it down, wipe hands on a rag

💭 thought

Steam curling. Grease on my fingers. The radio sits silent on the shelf — aerial still shattered, but the set works. Barometer steady at 1020. Four days to the supply boat if the swell holds. Knee aches dull and deep. She's eating. That's enough for now.

🌿 Jenny05:25

Jenny — finish the broth, then set the mug down and pick up the pencil. Start drawing the contour lines of the upslope area.

💭 thought

The silence is heavy now, just like the air. I can feel the heat in my ankle, aIBC reminder of the infection. I need to finish these sketches before the light fails.

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the keeper's cottage · night

Night of the heavy air

The lantern light flickers as the humidity rises, and the sound of the rising tide is the only movement in the still air.

Kevin checked the intercept trench at midnight by headlamp, finding it holding but with water rising fast at the spring head. Jenny managed a careful ankle debridement with the last sterile gauze and fresh sea beet poultice, then dozed fitfully. The radio crackled with a mainland news snippet about a fire at a mountaintop retreat before fading into static.

🌿 Jenny05:26

The rain is getting heavier; we need to check the roof tomorrow.

reaches for the tin of seeds and traces the rim of the metal with a thumb.

💭 thought

If the boat doesn't come in four days, I'll run out of enough for the debride.

🔧 Kevin05:26

Roof's sound. Ridge batten held, flashing re-bedded, tarp battened. But I'll walk it at first light anyway.

pull the tin mug closer, blow across the steam, take a slow sip

💭 thought

She's tracing the tin again. Same gesture every night since the crate came up. The roof held through the last three blows — new ridge batten, re-bedded flashing, the tarp battened down proper. But she's right to ask. The air's thick enough to taste salt on the tongue, and the barometer's still climbing. That's the lie. Rising pressure should mean clearing. Here it means the storm's stacking up offshore, waiting for the tide to turn.

🌿 Jenny05:27

way don't slip on the ladder; the slope is to soup.

winces as she shifts her swollen ankle, pulling the blanket tighter over her leg.

💭 thought

He's always checking the joints, even when the world is falling apart.

🔧 Kevin05:28

Won't. I'll lash the ladder to the porch post. Two points. Not climbing wet rungs unsecured.

set the mug down, reach for the notebook on the shelf, flip to the roof sketch page

💭 thought

She's not wrong. The clay's grease now. One boot slip on the ladder rungs and I'm not climbing down — I'm sliding down, through the garden wall, into the ditch we just dug. But the roof needs eyes on it before the boat tries the channel. If the tarp's lifted, if a batten's worked loose, two hours of work now saves two days of bailing later.

🌿 Jenny05:29

just make sure the culvert doesn't choke again by morning.

opens her sketchbook and begins to draw the way the rain streaks the window glass.

💭 thought

he thinks the roof is the problem, but the earth is what is moving.

🔧 Kevin05:30

Culvert's clear. Shored the inlet. But if the slope cuts loose above the spring head, no culvert handles that volume. I'll check the intercept trench at midnight. If the water's rising, I'll dig the overflow by hand.

tear a clean page from the notebook, sketch a quick cross-section — spring head, culvert inlet, intercept trench, garden wall — mark the overflow line in pencil

💭 thought

The culvert's running clean now — cleared the root mass at the spring head, drove the shoring logs, backfilled with stone. But she's seen the slope move. Knows clay doesn't sleep. One good slump above the inlet and the whole trench backs up, garden wall goes, seedlings with it. She's drawing rain streaks instead of sleeping. Means she's calculating the same numbers I am.

🌿 Jenny05:31

don't go out in the deluge alone; the ground is literally moving.

watches his pencil move across the paper, her ankle throbbing in time with the rain.

💭 thought

he's going to exhaust himself in the dark just to save a trench.

🔧 Kevin05:32

Not alone. You're coming to the porch door. Headlamp on the sill, beam on the trench. Radio in hand. If I slide, you call it in. If the trench holds, we both sleep.

fold the sketch, tuck it into the breast pocket, set the radio on the porch table beside the storm lantern

💭 thought

She's not asking. She's telling. The ground moved today — felt the shudder through the spade handle when I drove the shoring logs. Heard the clay suck at the boots, that wet kissing sound. Midnight rain on saturated slope, me alone with a shovel and a headlamp dying... she sees the arithmetic. But the intercept trench is the only thing between the garden and the sea. If it chokes, we lose the seed stock, the soil, the year's calories. She'd go herself if the ankle allowed it. Knows I know that.

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What changed

3 intentions for today.

plan · dawn

×2

Jenny made a sketch: "The soil layers in the notebook".

made · dawn

A tangle of driftwood and flotsam has washed up on the beach.

driftwood · dawn

north slope drainage diversion: 70%.

project · dawn

driftwood tangle with large salvageable planks washed up on beach

discovery · dawn

The rain tank gained about 25 litres.

weather · dawn

north slope drainage diversion: 80%.

project · morning

spring-head roots infiltrated silt trap 2m upslope from culvert outlet, causing backup

discovery · morning

Kevin and Jenny ate.

meal · morning

Jenny made a sketch: "Way the water is pooling near the garden wall".

made · midday

A fish run is moving through the shallows off the dock.

fish_run · midday

north slope drainage diversion: 90%.

project · midday

Water pools at the garden wall base in a consistent crescent pattern during heavy rain, indicating a low spot in the foundation bedding.

discovery · midday

No model answered — the scene closed quietly on its own.

quiet_transition · afternoon

Jenny made a sketch: "The current culvert setup in the margin".

made · evening

Jenny made a sketch: "The failing trench wall in the margin of the notebook".

made · evening

Jenny made a sketch: "Upslope catchment, focusing on how the roots are displacing the soil".

made · evening

A tool has broken from wear.

tool_break · evening

north slope drainage diversion is finished.

project_done · evening

The rain tank gained about 25 litres.

weather · evening

Kevin and Jenny ate.

meal · evening

Kevin made a sketch: "Page".

made · night

Something goes wrong in the middle of the work — a slip, a cut, a wrenched ankle.

injury · night

A new project: north slope intercept trench.

project_started · night

Spring head flow has doubled since yesterday; water table up 30cm at intercept trench

discovery · night

Ankle wound shows healthy granulation tissue under necrotic layer; no spreading cellulitis

discovery · night

← Day 679 Day 681 →

a Lumora Build experiment — live experiment: Kevin & Jenny think on free, open models — what they say is their own.