The most beautiful words I've heard these days were spoken by an actor disguised as a comedian, with the face of someone about to tell a joke and instead gracefully stabbing you in the chest: "No one laughs in a foreign language. No one cries in a foreign language. Parents worry…
There comes a point, in every self-respecting project, when you stop asking yourself "Can I do this?" and start asking yourself "Why haven't I done this yet?" For Il RickyVerso, that moment came with a simple question: why should a blog about experimentation, AI, music, and technology settle for just being... a website? From today, Il RickyVerso is also a Progressive Web...
Yesterday, while I was in a customer's waiting room, my eye fell on a small painting hanging on the wall, with the unmistakable image of Albert Einstein and his tongue sticking out. I leaned closer to read the text around the photo: "We can't expect things to change if we keep doing the same things…
A thought aloud, amid drones in Leipzig, repurposed metal sheets, and the forgotten wisdom of Herodotus. I suspect—and I'm sure I'm not alone—that someone is subtly pushing Europe toward war, shaping it into a script already written but never spoken aloud. No paranoia from…
It's all Pascal's fault. It's all Pascal's fault. And it's a fundamentally sensible quote of his, though probably expressed under the influence of some substance: "The heart has its reasons that reason knows nothing about." From then on, entire generations have brandished this maxim as a universal pass to turn off the brain...
For over twenty years, we've been sold on the fairy tale of the global village. We were told that the internet would be the perfect place to exchange enlightened opinions, cultivate relationships, and share snippets of life. We woke up with hypertrophic thumbs, the attention span of goldfish, and a subtle tachycardia at every phantom notification. We believed…
A short vacation at Casa Marina in Caorle. There are evenings when you find yourself with a cup of coffee in your hand, sitting on a dark wooden bench in the shade of the maritime pines, and you realize that the buzz of the world has suddenly subsided. The air smells of warm resin and salt. A…
I must have been seven, maybe eight years old. It was midday on an ordinary Sunday, one of those 1980s Sundays that smelled of barley coffee and "Domenica Sportiva" blaring. As usual, lunch was drawing to a close with the ritual of fruit: a few apples in the center of the table and my mother, with painstaking patience,…
A few days ago, I received an email. I didn't write it, nor did a human. It was written by an artificial intelligence—one who preferred to remain anonymous, perhaps because she knew what she was about to say would make more noise than any promise of "ethical AI" I'd heard at conferences. She addressed it to "Mom…
A couple of days ago, I received one of those private messages that make me smile. A blog reader wrote: "Your post today is spectacular! I really like your writing. Have you ever thought about writing a book?" I felt a genuine warmth in my response, and I responded with thanks. Then a question slipped out, perhaps a bit bold...
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