Paul Graham Raven

In February the sun returns slowly, like a scorned but needy god, and we prostrate ourselves before it with offerings of incense, firstborn lambs and WEEKNOTES. This week, finish lines are approached asymptotically, and the eschaton is retrospectively re-immanentised.

Past the old oak pillar and up the concrete stairs—that's where you'll find the WEEKNOTES, at least until the free beer runs out. This week, shells are haunted, and implausible worlds imagined with an uncanny thoroughness... oh, and a short story is published, too.

Slipping on the bison-skin cloak, dancing around the fire in the lowering light—WEEKNOTES will banish the unquiet spirits which ail you! This week, the train remounts the rails, and the deep past is as alien as the far future, while also as familiar as childhood itself.

The sun slouches out from behind the shoulder of the castle—and WEEKNOTES bask in a brief moment of winter morning light. This week, the incubator inducts a new egg, and the English language is instrumentalised.

The winter is deep and dark, and the forest is frightening—but we've fire on which to cook the quarry, and light by which to write the WEEKNOTES. This week, the hunt is begun once more, and the optimal forsworn.