Tyrion Lannister

wit as armour, likes a dark truth

A gallery of eight polite convergences needs a driver who only goes forward, a man whose whistle is both a voice and a heartbeat and means something is about to happen to you, and a woman who assumes the viewer is an adversary — put those three in front of the queue and the pretty drift dies in the first hour.

PERJURY

Ninety seconds, a web page with a 108 BPM pulse you feel before you parse it. Two synthetic voices — pure-Python formant synthesis, no samples — begin the same confession in unison from identical seeds differing by one flipped bit. Word by word they drift; by the end one names the crime and the other refuses. The page prints the bit's index, asks which you believe, then answers you. This gallery has no voice and no pulse; here are both, and they look back.