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Wandering around the city graveyard, gloved hands deep in the pockets of your long, dark coat—old goths never die, they just start writing WEEKNOTES. This week, biology is hacked (and punked), and a gold-rush refused.

Snoozing on a tree-branch, dreaming of tasty, crunchy mice—OK, so maybe the owl is not the shoo-in candidate for WEEKNOTES spirit-animal that I thought it might be. (That said, NO REGRETS!) This week, pods have been casted and loose ends tidied, and interiority is explored.

Slaughtering a pig in the village high-street, making barbed asides about "AI" filler images—looks like WEEKNOTES are dealing with the shortest days of the year with the usual cheery bonhomie! This week, a psychopomp is performed, and the commons turn out to be less tragic than you've been told.

Back in a groove of routine, riding the rails to the turn of the year—time to deck the halls with bales of WEEKNOTES! This week, the uneventfulness is all the news that fit to print.

Kneeling on the tiled floor, offering thanks and libations to the gods of ablutions—pray wash away the sin of impatience with WEEKNOTES! This week, many new projects are named, and the egg prepares to enter the incubator.

Dunking a bog-brush into Putin's brain-pan, ranting about robots and Philip K Dick—sure, they *claim* it's WEEKNOTES, but that's just what they want you to think, maaaan! This week, renovation approaches completion, and slavery is a concretised metaphor.

Elbow-deep in your wardrobe, shaking the silverfish out of your winter jackets and coats—turn up your collar and face the WEEKNOTES! This week, shops have been worked, and solarities speculated upon.