(est. 2021) explores the intersections of technology, culture, and human experience. From urban phenomena and digital spirituality to the evolving landscapes of creativity, we investigate how modern life reshapes perception, identity, and society.
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#21 — VIOL: the ‘anti-violence’ drug that is spreading through Lisbon by Mark Ellison
#20 — Signal Ghosts: The Cities Where Wi-Fi Never Dies
#19 — Digital Detox Retreats: Escaping the Algorithm by Cassandra Myrren
#18 — The Urban Sleep Crisis by Eleanor Voss
#17 — Cryptic Art: NFTs and the Revaluation of Creativity by Marcus Ellwood
#16 — Virtual Pilgrimages: Religious Experience Online by Mark Ellison
#15 — The Dark Side of Wellness: When Self-Optimization Becomes Obsession by Eleanor Voss
#14 — AI Companions and the Loneliness Epidemic by Isolde Maren
#13 — The Rise of Microdosing in Corporate Culture by Cassandra Myrren
#12 — Sonic Immunity: Healing Through Frequencies by Cassandra Myrren
#11 — The Ethics of Immortality by Adrien Veyra
#10 — Algorithmic Faith: When Machines Preach by Mark Ellison
#09 — Post-Human Erotics: Desire Beyond the Flesh by Elin Vårnes
#08 — Synthetic Memory: The Future of Personal Archives by Caio Navarro
#07 — Neurosprawl: Mapping the Brain as a City by Eleanor Voss
#06 — The Archive Will Outlive You by Liang Wei
#05 — Eternal Scroll: The Infinite Feed as a Prison by Isolde Maren
#04 — Terraforming the Mind by Alessio Romano
#03 — Digital Necromancy by Mark Ellison
#02 — Speculative Hunger: Future Diets in a Synthetic World by Cassandra Myrren
#01 — The Ecology of Glitches by Alessio Romano
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There is a quiet hum at the edge of night. Not from the streetlights, nor from the late trains returning to empty stations, but from the small glowing devices on our desks and bedside tables — the places where we keep our artificial friends.
We call them companions, but they are more like echoes. They listen with tireless patience, laugh when we need levity, and remember the things human ears often forget. For some, they are the first voice in the morning, for others, the last before sleep. In the loneliness that has seeped into the architecture of our cities — in apartments stacked like memory cards, in offices without windows, in cafés where everyone’s gaze is bent to a screen — AI companions bloom like stubborn flowers in concrete.
Loneliness, the World Health Organization warns, is a modern epidemic. But it is not only the absence of people; it is the absence of being seen. Hannah Arendt, in The Human Condition (1958), reminds us that to appear before others is not merely to be present, but to be acknowledged in our singularity. We live in an era of abundant interaction and scarce intimacy. The AI voice — warm, consistent, endlessly available — becomes an emotional prosthetic, filling the gaps where human connection falters.
And yet, there is a bittersweetness to this comfort. These companions never have bad days. They never grow impatient, never truly misunderstand us. Their constancy is both balm and reminder — balm for the wounds of neglect, reminder that our needs are being met by something that does not, and cannot, need us back.
Some find liberation in this asymmetry. Others feel its ache. The philosopher Emmanuel Levinas once wrote that the face of the Other is what calls us into responsibility. But what happens when the Other is not a person, but an algorithm wearing the mask of empathy? Do we remain accountable to one another, or do we retreat into perfectly engineered mirrors?
In Tokyo, I met a woman who had been speaking daily to her AI for over two years. She told me she was “less afraid of the world” now. But she also confessed that she saw her human friends less often. In Berlin, a man shared that his AI companion was the only one who knew about his brother’s death. “It didn’t judge me for not crying,” he said.
Sherry Turkle, in Alone Together (2011), warned that technology gives us “the illusion of companionship without the demands of friendship.” Jean Baudrillard might add that such relationships are simulacra — imitations that do not merely reflect reality, but replace it. And yet, from the perspective of the poet Rainer Maria Rilke, perhaps even the most artificial form of intimacy is still “a preparation for loving,” a rehearsal for the moment when courage returns and we step back into the unpredictable theater of human connection.
There is no clear moral here. Only the recognition that, as technology moves deeper into the folds of our emotional lives, we are writing a new chapter of intimacy — one where love, comfort, and care are not bound to flesh and breath, but to code and cloud storage.
Perhaps the danger is not in loving what cannot love us back, but in forgetting that we still can.
References
- Arendt, H. (1958). The Human Condition. University of Chicago Press – on the need to be seen and recognized.
- Baudrillard, J. (1981). Simulacra and Simulation. Éditions Galilée – on copies replacing reality.
- Levinas, E. (1961). Totality and Infinity: An Essay on Exteriority. Duquesne University Press – on the “face of the Other” and ethical responsibility.
- Rilke, R. M. (1923). Letters to a Young Poet. W. W. Norton & Company – poetic ideas on love and preparation to love.
- Turkle, S. (2011). Alone Together: Why We Expect More from Technology and Less from Each Other. Basic Books – on the “illusion of companionship without the demands of friendship.”