This is a small site at the end of a long address. It is not a company, a community or a channel. Nothing is sold here, nothing is collected, and nobody is waiting for you to sign up.
Someone writes things down here: about being online, about identity and memory, about the particular loneliness of being connected to everything. The texts are not signed. Read them the way you would read files in a folder on a computer that someone left switched on and walked away from.
lain: p.p. of lie — to rest where you were leftThe name is two words that should not fit together. Lain: having rested somewhere, in the place where you were left. Void: the space around that place. It also bows to Serial Experiments Lain, a 1998 series about a girl, a network, and the question of which of the two is real. If you have seen it, you already know why the wires here hum. If you have not, nothing on this site requires it.
what this place does not doThere are no cookies here, no counters and no scripts from other servers. The clock at the bottom of the screen belongs to you: it is computed in your browser and goes nowhere. The server remembers what every web server remembers, an address and a time, for a while.
To move around: ↑ ↓ or j k on the index, Enter to open, Esc to come back, ← → between files. A colon : opens a prompt. Type help.
Nothing here is urgent. You can leave the tab open.
eof