desk scrap paper with a conscience
A notebook that ends.
One page, bounded to 48 — the size of a Field Notes memo book. Write until it fills, then decide what's worth keeping and shelve the rest. The limit is the feature: a page that can't grow forever can't become a landfill.
THE BOOK · No.1
ink depth = how full each page is · dashed = unwritten
when the page fills, three verbs keep you writing
ROLL ⌘⏎
A scrap rolls up into a task, leaving a one-line scar where it was — most of its ink comes back. The rolled list is light: check it, reorder it, unroll it. No dates, no projects.
FILE ⇧⌘F
Keep a scrap for good in the cabinet — titled, tagged, searchable, sealed. Filing copies it out and leaves a one-line marker behind. The cabinet is unbounded; the page is not.
TEAR ⌫ hold
Some scraps were never meant to be kept. Scratch one out and a struck-through scar stays in its place — because on paper you never really got the page back either.
Nothing is ever fully erased. Every scar still costs a line, so the book keeps filling — and a finished one is the whole record of what you wrote and what became of it.
no streaks · no badges · no AI · no tracking · no second notebook — until you archive this one.
Everything you write is end-to-end encrypted on your device before it syncs. I store ciphertext I can't read — not a promise, an architecture. See how →