Taste

Sequel to Fourth Wing. A quarter in and increasingly sure I read this last year. The quandary: donate it and pick up the next one in the sequel — another chunky wonder — or push on and find out where the déjà-vu stops. I'm certainly not bringing both to Costa Rica. No Kindle either — half the point of a book this thick is the satisfaction of closing it.

Three days with the co-founders. The canvas that came out steers the business now. The book doesn't cover the hard part — knowing when to keep the canvas, and when to tear it up because the market is telling you to get lost.

An operating manual disguised as a book. The parts that fit stuck (zero inbox, action management). RAPID didn't take with the cofounders. Reread when I forget that pace is a feature.

Four playthroughs. Forty endings, give or take. The last big game I had time for. Geralt of Rivia, bathtub, rubber duck, scars, regret — if there was ever a leading man who made me forget what time it was, it was him.

Master Chief, Cortana in the ear, the Flood. The series I'd have called 'just shooting' if I hadn't played it. Cortana is the reason the agent at my terminal feels familiar.

Loved it until they killed Marshall and stuck me with his son. Threw the controller. Continuity is a contract. They broke it. Have not been able to play the sequel.

Fifteen minutes between stops. Small accusations, elimination logic. Not for fun — to swap the brain from "other day job" to "the other other day job" before I get to the desk.