A dystopian short story born from a dream: what happens when the elite that governs the world finds themselves, for one night, deprived of their power to control. The cold night air scratches my face. I don't feel the shiver—I reserve that for those who still believe the cold is a problem, and not…
The smell of asphalt and the background noise of the air conditioner. There was a time when summer had its own precise breathing rhythm. In the 1980s, when July afternoons became too hot to cycle, we would take refuge in the shade of an orange-striped tent with a glass of spuma or barley...
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…
The weather alert is orange, temperature records are falling one after another for the thirtieth consecutive day, and the air outside feels like a wood-fired oven pointed straight at you. What better time, before packing up for my blog's summer break, to treat you to a piece of wholesome, visceral, and sardonic...
It took us fifty years. Fifty years of equations, radar, LiDARs capable of mapping reality in 360 degrees, and microchips trained to predict the blink of an eye three intersections away. Engineering has performed a miracle: it has taught a metal box to drive with the precision of a surgeon and the patience of…
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,…
Modern narrative finance replaces traditional balance sheet fundamentals with the media impact of charismatic characters. Through the gamification of trading and the FOMO (fear of being excluded), small savers buy shares at the height of the increases, suffering devaluations when the insider and the first investors cash in on the expiry of the bonds lock-up.
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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