Fabrain

A family in Switzerland is building a shared memory. Two adults who don't share a first language, a flat, a car, two bikes, and the ordinary accumulation of papers, tradespeople and deadlines that a life produces.

You send it a photo, a voice note, a PDF. Later you ask it something, in whatever language you happen to think in, and it answers — or says plainly that it doesn't know.

The goal is small and specific: never dig an old paper out of a pile of papers again.

Why write it down

Because the interesting part isn't the architecture. It's what breaks.

A model that couldn't see an image invented a complete insurance policy rather than admit it. A compressed photo produced a price list that wasn't on the page. A service invoice turned out to be a quote that was declined — and every automated reading of it was confidently wrong about the only fact that mattered.

Each of those changed how the system works. That's the journal: the failures, in order, and what each one cost.

It's written while it's happening rather than reconstructed afterwards, because the reconstructed version flattens into "here is my architecture", which is the version nobody reads.

A note on privacy

Everything shown here uses a fictional household. Not anonymised — invented.

The real corpus contains an address, a vehicle identification number, bank details, and the name and date of birth of a stranger who sold us a car. Nobody in it agreed to appear on a website. Redaction means catching every one of those, every time, forever, and one miss is permanent.

So there's nothing to catch.