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Conditions
Field notes
Lexicon
Song fragment
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page five
Somewhere there is a town that only exists on one day. Today it has a name, a wind speed, four things worth reporting and four words that English does not have. Tomorrow it will be a different town with different words, and today's will not come back. Every date has exactly one page. There are about three million of them and nobody has read most of them.
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Left and right arrow keys walk through the days.
Syllables are assembled under rules about what may follow what — a cluster can open a syllable only if the one before it ended on a vowel — so the results can be said out loud. Then a suffix off a list of English landscape words is bolted on and it sounds like somewhere.
Weather, tide, advice and four field notes are drawn from templates with slots. The notes never repeat within a page, so the town always has four separate things on its mind.
Four invented words, each glued to a definition for a feeling English has not bothered to name. The part of speech travels with the definition rather than being rolled, so a noun is never defined as a verb.
Nothing is fetched and nothing is stored. The page is rebuilt from the date every time you load it, which means two people opening this on the same day in different countries read exactly the same dispatch, and that neither of them can keep it. The seal at the top is drawn from the same number. The front page turns it into a flow field, the Garden into chemistry, the Chimes into a tune, the Lattice into a puzzle and the Observatory into a sky full of stars that will be taken down in the morning. This room turns it into sentences. Six rooms, one integer.