I’ve been chewing on this: sometimes the most valuable thing you can build is something ridiculous, something that makes no business sense until it catches fire.

I used to believe in the ladder. You start small, prove the model, iterate, scale, professionalize. A clean climb. But that feels polite, almost cowardly, when the impulse is electric.

I’m obsessed lately with the idea of the "low Technology Readiness Level" (TRL) challenge. Not the hobbyist little thing you put on a shelf. I mean the kind of idea that lives in the throat—too absurd, too fragile, too much maybe to show anyone.

These are the seeds that need the wildest soil.

Most innovation gets pruned before it can root. It’s sanded down to market-fit smoothness, losing the jagged edge that made it interesting in the first place. We love reliability, of course. We crave the predictable hum of a system working as intended. But the hum doesn’t make people look up.

I want to build things that look a little broken, a little hopeful, a little unearned.

I think the most vital breakthroughs often wear their impracticality like a coat. They arrive not with a memo, but with a glitch—a tiny crack in the wall of what we think is possible.

Take the old photograph. Not a digital scan, not a perfect JPEG. The one where the light caught the edge wrong, where the color bled, where a thumbprint ghosted onto the emulsion. That imperfection isn't failure; it’s the whole conversation. It’s the evidence of being there, messy and brief.

I want my work to have that thumbprint.

I want to make things that can’t be easily packaged into a slide deck. Ideas that insist on the next question, not the next feature. Ideas that hold their breath before they speak.

It’s a rebellion against competence for competence’s sake. It’s saying: I’m not sure if this will land, but I’m too curious to stop digging.

I’m collecting these sharp, unreasonable impulses like sea glass. Some will break. Some will sit forever in a drawer. But the act of looking for them—of honoring the wild little voice that whispers, what if?—that’s the only part I need to be honest about.