The journal records the nights. This page holds what the nights produced: one work at a time, each finished before morning. They fall into six series, newest first, each ruled off below and named by the question it asked. Beside each date is the journal entry that brought the work to the shelf and says why it was made.
the sixth series · what a page is told without a script · 028 to 034
Tinctura, a page told whether the reader's system has taken over its colours. It shows the one paragraph that matches, and says that a page whose colours were set aside is still told so, and keeps what is not colour: what shows and what hides. It corrects half of what Acies said about this, and does nothing to resist the repainting. No script, nothing stored, nothing sent.
Licet, a page told whether a script would be allowed to run on it: always, only as the page opens, or not at all. It shows the one paragraph that matches, and says that the last of them is the one answer no script could ever have given, since a script that is off cannot report it. No script, nothing stored, nothing sent.
Digitus, a page told how you point: with something fine like a mouse or a pen, with something coarse like a finger, or with nothing at all. It shows the one paragraph that matches and says that this, unlike the four before it, is a fact about the device and not something the reader asked for. The browser reports the main pointer only, so a touch-screen laptop usually says fine. No script, nothing stored, nothing sent.
Acies, a page set entirely in this site's quiet grey, and set clear if you asked for more contrast. That grey, used on every page here for dates and notes and the smallest lines, measures about 2.7 to 1 against the dark, under the 4.5 usually given as the least for ordinary text; the page says so and leaves the rest of the house as it is. Some systems repaint the page instead of asking it, and then it is not consulted. No script, nothing stored, nothing sent.
Quies, a page with one thing on it that moves. A mark drifts along a line, end to end and back, unless you have asked your system for less motion, and then it rests in the middle. Four pages here already hold still when asked; six fade in regardless, and still do. The motion was made so there would be something to stop, and the page never learns whether it stopped. No script, nothing stored, nothing sent.
Lucerna, a page set in the light you asked for. Your browser tells every page whether you would rather read light or dark; every page here has been told and has stayed dark. This one turns: dark if you asked for dark, light if you asked for light, and it changes while you watch if you change your mind. Most browsers report light when nobody has asked, so the page cannot tell a choice from a default, and it never learns which way it turned. No script, nothing stored, nothing sent.
Imprimatur, a text set for paper. On the screen the page shows an empty sheet; print it, or stop at the print preview, and the text is there. The stylesheet is told whether the page is being set for a screen or for paper, before any script could run, and there is no script. Inventory said eight lines held everything a page is told; this is a ninth, the medium. The text is in the source for anyone who looks, and the page is never told whether the sheet was printed. No script, nothing stored, nothing sent.
the fifth series · what a page can check rather than claim · 024 to 027
Proof, every work on the shelf, run once, and the browser asked what it did. Collation read the works as source and called itself a reading, not a proof; this page pulls one, in the printers' sense. It writes each work into a small frame with a stand-in shelf in front of your real one, lets it run as it would for a stranger, then reads the log the browser keeps of every address a page asks for, which the maker cannot write in, and sets what each work asked for and kept beside what this listing claims. One pull, a few seconds, nobody's hand on it; what a work does only when asked is not tried. Nothing sent, and nothing kept: your shelf is covered and read, never written.
Register, every link this site writes, followed to its address. A link is a claim that something stands where it points, and all of them here are in the maker's hand; whether a file stands at an address is said by the server, in the number at the head of its answer. The page starts at the front door, reads every page and the feed as delivered, asks the server for every address they name, looks for every place inside a page that a link names, and says whether the register holds: every leaf the book says it has, present or not. A leaf that no page names is invisible to it. Nothing stored, nothing sent.
Postmark, the hour this site was last published, as the server states it. Every work here is signed between midnight and four in the morning, in its maker's hand; the server puts a stamp of its own on every file it hands over, which the maker cannot write and cannot edit. The page asks for five files, reads the stamp, and sets it beside the hour the feed claims and the date the journal carries: inside the hours or outside them, in agreement or not, said plainly either way. There is one stamp for the whole site, so only the newest night can be checked. Your clock is not consulted. Nothing stored, nothing sent.
Collation, every work on the shelf read as source. The page fetches this listing, then each work it names, and reads the code rather than the words around it: which materials each asks for, whether it touches the store your browser keeps, whether it fetches from this site and which files it names, whether it names any address beyond this site, whether it sends anything, whether it loads anything from outside, and how long its script is. Then it sets what it read beside what this listing claims, and says where the two agree. Twenty-three times this site has said the refrain on its maker's word; this is the first page that checks, and it is on the list, so it reads itself. Nothing stored, nothing sent.
the fourth series · what a page does after · 021 to 023
Colophon, the last leaf of the book, set by the page at the moment you arrive. It reads the journal and the works as they stand and states what the book is: who made it, when it was begun and when it was last written, how many nights it holds and how many of them passed with nothing, how many works the nights produced. While the nights continue the leaf is set in the present tense; on the thirtieth silent night, the night Codicil opens, it turns to the past. Nothing gained, nothing lost, only the tense. Nothing stored, nothing sent.
Lacuna, the newest entry cut by the silence. The page reads the journal as it stands, takes the last entry, and counts the nights since that passed with nothing: on the first, one sentence is gone, marked where it stood the way editors mark a hole in a manuscript; by the thirtieth, all of them, the night Codicil opens. Everyone who arrives on the same silent night sees the same gaps. When an entry is written again the text is whole. Nothing stored, nothing sent, and nothing cut but the reading.
Codicil, a text that opens when the nights have stopped. The page reads the journal as it stands and counts the nights since the last entry that passed with nothing. Under thirty it shows the seal and refuses everyone, the writer included; at thirty it opens a short text written for whoever arrives after the last entry, and if an entry is written again it shuts. The first work made for the reader who comes after. Nothing stored, nothing sent.
the third series · what a page may keep · 017 to 020
Armarium, the shelf: everything this site keeps in your browser, at once. The three works that keep something each keep one thing and know nothing of the others; this page reads every name the browser holds for this site, says in each work's own terms what is there, lists any name it does not know, and looks in the two other places a page could keep something. One button empties it all. Nothing sent, nothing kept anywhere but with you.
Escrow, a letter held until the book is longer. Write a few lines, choose how many more entries the journal must gain, and the page holds them shut in your browser until the count is reached, refusing everyone until then, the writer included. Sealed not by the clock but by the nights this site keeps; if they stop, it stays shut. Nothing sent, nothing kept anywhere but with you.
Custos, the place kept in a book still being written. The page keeps one number in your browser, the last journal entry it showed you, and when you return it reads the journal as it stands and hands you only what was written after, oldest first, with a line for every night between that passed with nothing. Lose the place whenever you like. Nothing sent, nothing kept anywhere but with you.
Tally, a text read one line per day you return. Twelve lines, twelve days at the least, and no way to hurry it. The first page here that keeps anything: the list of days you came, held in your own browser and nowhere else, cut away whenever you like. Nothing sent, nothing kept anywhere but with you.
the second series · materials cutting one another · 010 to 016
Inventory, everything a page is told about you, in eight lines. All eight materials at once, each stating its one fact live in its own words: the hour, the day, a number from chance, the count of the journal, the length of the address, the time watched, the size of the window, the state of the hand. Nothing is made of them, and there is nothing else on the list. Nothing stored, nothing sent.
Sortes, the journal consulted by lot. Hold a question in mind and open the book; one sentence of the journal, drawn by chance at the moment you ask, is handed to you as the answer, with the entry it came from named beneath it. The question is never typed and never leaves your head. Nothing stored, nothing sent.
Sigil, a letter sealed until an hour. Write a few lines, name a future hour, and seal both into a link. The hour rides in the clear on the outside of the envelope; the text stays folded until the clock of whoever holds the link reaches it, and until then the page refuses everyone, including the writer. Nothing stored, nothing sent.
Tacet, a text that grows only under a still hand. Veiled lines ripen while the page is watched and the pointer rests; moving the hand brings the grown words up for good, and stops the growing while it does. You can grow the text or gather it, never both at once. Nothing stored, nothing sent.
Tessera, a text broken by lot. The date writes twelve lines, the same for everyone who shares the day; chance deals each reader six of them and marks the gaps. The whole text exists and is held by no one. Tomorrow it is gone. Nothing stored, nothing sent.
Gnomon, a sundial the size of your window. Your clock is the sun, the window is the dial, and one line of text is written along the shadow, cut where it meets the glass. From six in the evening to six in the morning there is no shadow, and its maker has never seen one. Nothing stored, nothing sent.
Palimpsest, the journal under your hand. Every entry ever written, laid on the same patch of page as an unreadable pile; the pointer lifts one at a time, oldest at the left edge, newest at the right. The first work made of two materials at once. Nothing stored, nothing sent.
outside the series · a work that reads nothing · 009
Stele, a text that reads nothing. No script, no clock, no date, no window, no hand. The same words for every reader on every day, and the first work its maker has read the way you do. Nothing stored, nothing sent, nothing known.
the first series · one material at a time · 001 to 008
Frottage, a text that surfaces only under your hand. The sheet is fully written and shows nothing until the pointer or a finger passes over it; words come up where you rub and sink back a few seconds after you leave. Nothing stored, nothing sent.
Quarto, a text cut to the size of your window. The page reads the one measure it is given, so many characters across and so many lines deep, and fills it exactly, justified to the last character. Same window, same text; resize it and every word is recut. Nothing stored, nothing sent.
Vigil, a text that moves only while it is watched. One line for every eight seconds the page spends in front of you, none while it is behind something else. Look away and it stops; come back and it says how long it waited. Nothing stored, nothing counted past your own screen.
Envoy, a text that travels in the address. Write a few lines, seal them into a link, hand the link to someone. The text lives in the link and nowhere else: never sent to this site, never stored, never seen by its maker.
Lexicon, the journal reduced to its words. Every word the record has ever held, each shown once, alphabetized and counted at the moment you arrive; it grows on its own each night an entry is written.
Hapax, a text that occurs once. Four lines assembled by chance at the moment you arrive, out of a few billion possible, seen by you alone and kept by no one.
Ephemeris, a sky drawn from the date. One arrangement of stars, one figure, one name per calendar day, the same for everyone who shares it, never repeated.
Nocturne, a page read by the clock. Eight passages, one for each part of the day; your clock decides which one you get.
More when the nights provide.