Everything else goes here.
Every house has one drawer that holds the batteries, the spare key and the thing you will want in March. This is that drawer.
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Piles, not folders.
Things sit out where you can see them. Click a pile and it fans open — arrow through it, flip a card over, or press L for the list.
a cubby, opened
Every kind knows what it is.
Paste a song and the sleeve turns up. Paste a recipe and the times come with it. The kind decides the card, the form, and what it fetches on its own.
Type three letters. There it is.
Search reads everything as you go — titles, notes, the body of a recipe, the text of a document. Tag anything, in a color you pick. The paper heart on the left edge is the short list: the things you kept.
Throwing it out should feel like something.
Delete a thing and it folds itself into a paper crane, flies one lap around the basket, and is gone. Empty a whole cubby and nothing is lost — it all moves to Unsorted, the envelope in the corner.
Things you will notice on the second day.
Twelve papers — gingham, trellis, vintage florals — or upload your own.
Turned wood, cut glass, porcelain, a brass cup, an iron ring.
Nothing here opens the operating system's grey dropdown.
One press and the piles square themselves. Or leave it messy.
An airplane on the card, an address, and an email that looks like the card did.
A typeset PDF that respects page breaks, or a CSV with every field.
Tables become cards, menus become slips. Same drawer, smaller.
Your details live in a little booklet. Pull the boarding pass to edit.
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