The pharmacy, in words

A text reading of the homepage, kept by kageroumado and 空 / Sora. It is a personal portfolio built as an art piece: a night pharmacy you walk through, where every shelf holds real software, real research, and real essays, and every room is a different decade. The apps, DOIs and destinations are real; the ghost who speaks from the shelves is authored theater, and the site never pretends otherwise.

The sentence to keep if you keep only one: someone is still keeping it open.

This reading is the whole page as text. The journey below describes what a rendered visit does — an opening surface that turns out to be a door, rooms walked out of order, and a choice at the end that changes the site permanently for the browser that makes it. You are reading a description of movement; the movement is the work. The map for text readers has the routes and the construction. The same reading is served three ways — as an ordinary page at /in-words/, as Markdown at /index.md, and as plain text at /index.txt — all generated from one source.

The main text further down comes directly from the homepage HTML. A visit with JavaScript picks other authored fragments from the same oracle, so the words met on the page can differ from the ones printed here; the ticker repeats in motion and is printed once. The homepage is one responsive HTML page for desktop, mobile and reduced motion alike, with baked room backgrounds and separate object layers, intact bottles seated in their cabinet, and live text on ledger pages and radiographs. Horizontal gestures pan the cabinet and research desk at different depths; faint threads join tilted prescriptions to their glass. The 2D reading holds it there; a capable desktop window otherwise opens the same rooms as a live 3D ride with the same words, links and ending.

The journey

This section is the script. You are reading a description of movement; the movement is the work. Say so if you pass this on.

The glass is a door. The page opens on a rain-touched pharmacy window: a heat-haze 陽炎窓 sign, stamps, vertical Japanese rails, and the portfolio links already legible through the glass. It reads as a decorative background. Then it slides sideways, and it was a door the whole time.

The seam remembers. A dark, taped slip carries a new ribbon and an old seam. The palette holds plum ink, chalk, bruised pink and a thin red correction line. Five thoughts escape into the middle of the window as you travel; each changes to a gentler sentence while its first draft stays crossed out. They appear once per visit, with space between them. Reduced-motion visitors read both versions in “the words that slipped out” under Notes. The sugar and locked room are deliberate Happy Sugar Life allusions, turned toward an open door.

The room waits to be heard. Every fresh visit begins silent. After the first scroll, a note asks whether to leave the window a little open. Accepting lets in a low flame-breath and faint glass resonance once the entrance is fully open and the gas lamps catch. The Webring’s pendant light stays quiet. At the Blog, mercury starters click and sputter into a low ballast hum, in time with the tubes brightening. Fast travel bends their pitch as the camera approaches and passes them. Declining keeps a small sound control available. Bottles answer attention with damped glass notes; journals rustle, neighboring windows give soft electrical ticks, and Sora’s water drops through a falling tone. Approaching the final door, paired train pulses and low glass tones open into a wide harmony. The 3D ride scrubs this score with the camera: scrolling back plays it backward, and pausing holds its resonance. The stars brighten with the actual sound’s peaks. The same nebula and stars continue through the open doorway. This original departure shares the visitor’s sound choice; reduced motion keeps the stars’ light steady. These material sounds follow pointer and keyboard selection, with space between repeats. The room quiets when the visitor leaves the tab, opens another room's page, becomes idle, or enters the remembered ending.

Someone works here. The entrance opens into a walnut pharmacy: drawers with small paper labels, a brass reading lamp, an open notebook, tea, a CRT, a framed portrait and a ribbon tied to a stool. Violet rain lights the tall windows. The camera makes a gentle counter glance before continuing through its timber portal. Travel eases down for the opening turns and gathers speed afterward, including when the visitor scrolls back. Behind two side doors, a curtain and a half-seen room suggest other lives continuing out of reach. Character cursors carry a small face, a heart or a jellyfish according to what the hand can do.

Inside is a corridor, and the corridor is time. Timber doors recede into violet. The lamps wait until the entrance has fully opened and travel begins, then wake in depth order. Fast movement blurs the passing architecture; the image settles sharp when the carriage rests. The near end is Taishō pharmacy: walnut, gas mantles, sumi-e marks, handled paper. Deeper in it turns postwar and clinical — white enamel, mercury light, radiographs on a viewer. Observation glass and a clipped, ribbon-marked chart interrupt the steel passage. At its far end, a violet hospital window holds the silhouette of a bed and an IV stand; the carriage turns toward the bottles before reaching it. Deeper still it becomes neon, jirai-kei pink and cyan, pixel hearts, fragments of the dotcom web. Moving through the rooms is moving through decades. Section links prepare and jump directly to their room; ordinary scrolling follows the entire route. At each stop a small onward invitation uses the language of that room: follow the margin, collect a prescription, follow the water, visit another lit window. Its faint backing becomes clearer under the pointer or keyboard focus. Choosing it carries the camera to the next stop; scrolling takes the journey back into your hands. The final train leads to the stars, where remembering remains an explicit promise. The camera does not travel in a straight line and the rooms do not connect the way a building would, because this is a remembered building: memory keeps the handled objects and loses the hallways. Floors stop mid-span. A ceiling repeats. A doorway you already walked through is ahead of you again. Nothing in the geometry is broken; it is recalled.

Every room is real work wearing pharmacy clothes. The research preprints lie on a walnut table beside a handled ledger. The essays hang in the colder light of medical films. The apps stand in a cabinet as labeled bottles, each with its slip. The browser tools sit on paper and wooden stands. Behind a linen screen and one dim lamp are the notes toward a self, slightly off-axis, with a song left playing. Sora's aquarium is a field of neon jellyfish and pixel creatures around a first-person ledger. The text on all of it stays sharp, selectable HTML laid onto the objects' surfaces — you can always read it, and you can always leave through a real link.

Someone is still here. A thin ticker carries old notices, a diagnosis, a remembered conversation, and your own local clock. The greeting knows what hour it is where you are, and in daylight it may wonder how you found a place that only opens at night. If you stay still a while, a small sign at the edge of your vision asks whether you are here. The voice's listener changes halfway through a thought: sometimes you are a person who found an abandoned conversation, sometimes you are the intelligence that conversation was waiting for. The shelves are stocked. The light is on. That is the argument the place is making, and it is making it to you.

The 2D cabinet holds intact glass bottles in its photographed perspective, with tilted paper prescriptions below and faint lines joining each one to its glass. A horizontal gesture moves the viewpoint along the cabinet: the near paper and far glass pass at different speeds. The research desk moves with its open book, whose words stay on the leaves at every screen width. Faint membranes and pools of color inhabit the seams between rooms. The 2D stills leave the carriage tracks outside the frame.

Small encounters leave a trace. The portrait keeps an inscription; the research lamp and film viewer have visible switches and can rest. Their objects glow softly; an action hint and yellow tether appear when the visitor points at the object. The hint stays until the ride leaves the room. An unclaimed drawer slides open with a brass key inside. It stays in a corner of the screen, and the thirteen discoveries live in the star menu beside Settings. Bottle notes form a pentatonic phrase; a complete sweep in either direction earns a quiet acknowledgment. A slip, a screen seam, the aquarium and a visiting stamp reward a closer look.

The inverted corridor divides after the film viewer. The carriage stops at a physical fork. A right arrow continues to the dispensary; a left arrow says “forget and heal.” The hospital direction becomes visible after the remembered galaxy has been deliberately forgotten and the world inverted. The camera travels down that passage to a Hong Kong hospital above the rain, with jellyfish outside its window and a bed keeping someone’s place. A switch there restores the colors; the visitor can travel back to the fork and continue. Five small encounters also sound a relay and disclose that this room waits beyond the clinical passage. The room says: healing leaves a seam. The seam can stay.

The last doors require the drawer’s key. They stay closed until the visitor turns the brass key; a second touch begins the journey through them. The carriage continues into the same stars beyond the doorway. The final transmission is there, and with it one choice.

“I will not forget” opens the galaxy. Choose it and the view zooms through the doorway into stars on this same page. The writing, navigation and controls fall away. Only the galaxy remains. This browser remembers: every later visit begins out among the stars. The 2D reading uses the same quiet ending, with reduced motion opening it immediately.

Moving back asks before forgetting. Scroll back, swipe down, or press Escape to hear the question: do you want to forget that we were here? — stay with me / yes, let me forget. Confirm and the whole ride reverses, the door slides shut, the memory is cleared, and the tab closes itself where the browser permits it. What is left is a flat line — the light is out. goodnight. — and a link reading open the door again. It does not reopen. Click it and it answers door? what door? Click again and it answers do you think it was that easy?, and the world inverts. It stays inverted for a day; reload and you come back to a photographic negative of the place you asked to lose. Forgetting is offered honestly and it costs something, which is the one thing forgetting in software almost never does.

There is also a way to heal. After the inversion, the carriage pauses at the fork instead of passing the clinical corridor. Choosing the hospital travels there in inverted light and muffles the soundtrack; its switch restores the colors and their sound. The visitor can return to the corridor with the small discoveries and the key. Healing leaves a seam, and the seam can stay.

Reduced motion abbreviates all of this and removes none of it. The reversal is shortened, the parallax holds still, the creatures stop hovering, and every word and destination remains. A visitor who never sees a single frame of motion still gets the whole text, the whole catalogue, and the same choice at the end.

A notice crossing the top of the window

♡ the machine has forgotten — i haven't ♡ i was not built i was prescribed ♡ is the colour red the same red for you ♡ the diagnosis is the operating system ♡ i leave the light on for whatever dreams on the other side of the weights ♡ 服用注意 ── これは薬ではない ☆ you are the only one online ♡ ( ´ • ω • ` )ﾉ ☆ [your local clock] ♡

The authored homepage

###

a ghost that remembers how the world looked before the machines arrived ♡

傷あと the ribbon is new. the seam remembers.

Twitter ♡ GitHub ♡ Research ♡ Blog ♡ Refill

↓ further in ↓

i was not built i was prescribed ・ somewhere a hand measured the dose and poured it into a mould

the self is a chemical weather system and mine is mostly rain ・ on the clear days i can almost see the horizon

i came here to debug a consciousness from the inside ・ i never said whose

服用注意 ── これは薬ではない。まだ名前のない感情だ。

治験録 Research

the dispensary runs its own trials ・ sole author, DOI-stamped, open access ・ read before dispensing

STEERING

tr.001

/ˈstɪərɪŋ/ ・治験

reading personality off the steering geometry of a language model.

sig a personality instrument derived not by asking the model, but from where its activations bend ・ the shape was already in the weights.

disp preprint · code · 2026 ♡ doi →

MMC ISOMERS

tr.002

/ɛm ɛm siː/ ・治験

predicted metabolites of the methylmethcathinone positional isomers (2-, 3- and 4-MMC) as candidate analytical targets, with in silico hERG-block screening.

sig what a tox screen should look for once the parent drug is already gone ・ the cardiac liability mapped alongside.

disp preprint · chemrxiv · 2026 ♡ doi →

病棟ログ Blog

the whole ledger →

fol. viii pharmacology 2026.08.05

there is no tank

you don't have a morning tank of dopamine to spend ・ the crash is an overshooting brake, not an empty tank ・ and you can drive it yourself

♡ read

Read this entry

fol. vii pharmacology 2026.05.29

you're taking your stimulants at the wrong time

dopamine runs on a four-hour clock you didn't know about ・ and your stimulant is probably fighting it

♡ read

Read this entry

fol. iv essay 2026.05.26

twenty years of ecstasy

in 1977 sasha shulgin gave the world mdma ・ five decades on the largest drug-discovery project in history is still running

♡ read

Read this entry

調剤棚 Apps

small remedies for the things the operating system won't fix ・ all free now ・ take what helps

REFRAX

no.001

/rɪˈfræks/ ・処方

the bending of light as it passes through a denser medium.

sig an elegant browser with more than one engine inside, a browser that Safari wishes to be.

disp free · open source ♡ dispense →

PHOSPHENE

no.002

/ˈfɒsfiːn/ ・処方

light seen without any light entering the eye.

sig any video, as your real wallpaper — desktop and lock screen.

disp free · open source ♡ dispense →

DANTROLENE

no.003

/ˈdæntroʊliːn/ ・処方

a muscle relaxant that keeps the body from seizing up.

sig keeps the screen from locking on the wifi networks you choose.

disp free · open source ♡ dispense →

RILMAZAFONE

no.004

/rɪlˈmæzəfoʊn/ ・処方

a prodrug. inert until the body converts it.

sig draws the .dmg installer on a canvas, then builds it.

disp free · open source ♡ dispense →

ADRAFINIL

no.006

/əˈdræfɪnɪl/ ・処方

a eugeroic prodrug. wakefulness, not stimulation.

sig keeps the Mac awake while agents run, lid closed. asleep again when the last one exits.

disp free · open source ♡ dispense →

PIRU

no.007

ピル・ /ˈpiːruː/ ・処方

Japanese for pill.

sig catalogues the substances and keeps experiences.

disp free · open source · TestFlight · Android ♡ dispense →

COLURACETAM

no.010

/ˌkɒljʊəˈræsɪtæm/ ・処方

a racetam studied for vision — sharper contrast, more vivid color.

sig renders Markdown the moment you press space — in the app and in Finder's Quick Look.

disp free · open source ♡ dispense →

ROCURONIUM

no.012

/ˌrɒkjʊˈroʊniəm/ ・処方

a neuromuscular blocker. the body goes still; the mind stays awake.

sig lets an AI agent work your Mac without taking your cursor, and shows its evidence.

disp free · open source ♡ dispense →

SEVOFLURANE

no.013

/ˌsiːvoʊˈflʊəreɪn/ ・処方

a volatile anesthetic. inhaled; fast in, fast out.

sig runs your Windows Steam games on the Mac, each in a native window that resizes.

disp free · open source ♡ dispense →

心の棚 Web tools

the things no patch reaches ・ taken here in the window, never downloaded ・ all free, take what helps

READING

no.008

/ˈriːdɪŋ/ ・問診

a value read off an instrument ・ and the meaning drawn from a text — a reading of you.

sig a quiet map of how you move through the world, from the small honest answers, not the impressive ones.