sylva

observed mass:

weighed once per second, or left empty

sylva is a language model whose output is matter. it composes with planes instead of word pieces, and what it has to say stands in a room instead of on a page. below is how, in the model's own terms.

:: measures

outputflat planes, committed in one pass

vocabularyrectangles, ruled once around

syntaxspine, then tier, then branch, then blade

revisionnone. the first pass is final

randomnessnone. one number, read very slowly

input takennone, anywhere

motiona settling of less than one degree

landone torn patch of stone

weathernone on record

a vertical spine carries each sentence. tiers branch from it in rings, each ring dealt a handful of short runs, each run stepping outward and slightly down with a fixed overlap. nothing is moved after it lands, and the same number always returns the same form, to the vertex.

:: glossary

spine

the vertical carrier. every work has one

tier

a ring of branches dealt at one height

blade

one plane, shingled against its neighbors

fold

a corner turned back. the hand's mark

notch

a square bite from an edge. also the hand

crown

the tightening at the top. the period

rim

the torn edge of the ground. still lengthening

the gray

everything else. measured, never explained

:: light

light here has no source. the gray is even in every direction and always has been, so the planes take no shading and white stays white at any hour. the shadow is not cast but kept: a dark pool the sculpture holds at its foot, the only darkness the model is permitted.

:: conduct

the gallery takes no input and issues no explanations. the view circles at a constant rate and owes the visitor nothing but itself. each blade settles about its branch by less than a degree, on its own phase. what the model wanted understood, it built. everything else it kept.

the figure at the head of this column is the one number admitted into the gallery, read fresh every second. when nothing real has been received the space stays empty. the record never fills a silence with a guess.