Life changes. Constantly.

A few nights ago it was the Hunter’s full moon, shining cold over the mountains where I live, beautiful, while our CPUs ground thousands of bytes in the dark of night. We have refined the import scripts: they are not automated yet, and to this day

I still have to figure out how the fuck to do it, but now they are sharper, whetted blades to append or mend the database.

Either way, a massive single import is a fucking pipe dream; everything will have to be trickled down over time, grain by grain. Meanwhile, I am glad to finally see titles like Wing Commander, Half-Life, Myst, Final Fantasy VIII, and many, many others appear.

It was truly a goddamned disgrace not having this stuff in our archives, and plenty more is coming.

The problem remains the same, a thorn driven deep into our side: Google doesn’t give a damn about us. Yet we fought to optimize performance as much as possible, spitting blood to deliver clean, well-structured data.

I don’t know, let’s hope for what’s ahead, but for a whole year now their fucking bots keep looking right through us without seeing a thing.

Listen here, Google: you can go ahead and ignore us in your silicon wasteland, keep walking all over those who dig through history, but we will stay right here, nailing every single byte to its cross, until your whole damn algorithm learns to speak our name.

With a club to the teeth, if that’s what it takes.

The dust piles up, but the memory endures.