— Transmission received —

You've been building something
in your head.
Something the world says
you can't.

Something that makes no practical sense whatsoever.

Good.

↓

40 Days Is the Number

Forty days. It keeps showing up. Noah's flood: forty days. Moses on the mountain: forty days. Jesus in the desert: forty days. The Buddha under the tree: roughly forty days, give or take an enlightenment.*

The word quarantine literally comes from quarantina — forty days of isolation before you were allowed back into the city. As if the Venetians knew: you need forty days to become someone the world isn't ready for.

Modern neuroscience says it takes approximately 40 days to rewire a habit. Which means either the universe has always known what it's doing, or we've been accidentally correct for three thousand years. Both are unsettling.

Here's the deal. One tiny visit per day. That's it. No feeds. No scrolling. No algorithm deciding what you need. Just you, a cup of tea, and the quiet act of building something that matters to you.

You open it. You read a transmission. You do a small thing. You close it. You go about your day.

Something shifts.

* Forty appears so often in human mythology that one suspects the universe has a fondness for round-ish numbers and a flair for the dramatic.

Meet Your Inner Idiots

Your inner archetypes, made visible. And given names. And personalities. And, in one case, tiny coordinated jumpsuits.

Noah

The Builder

That's you. A bearded man on Mars who received a vision. Everyone thinks he's lost it. He's building anyway. Noah is the part of you that knows what needs to be done, even when the world says otherwise. Especially when the world says otherwise.

Greg

The Anxious Guide

An angel. Stationed on the Moon. Perpetually anxious. Deeply caring. He delivers your daily briefings with the energy of someone who wants to help but is very concerned about health and safety regulations. Greg means well. Greg always means well. Greg also thinks you should probably have a backup plan for your backup plan and maybe not tell anyone about this until you're sure, which you'll never be, which is Greg's point.

Marnie

The Inner Skeptic

Noah's wife. Practical, sharp, deeply loving beneath the eye-rolls. She asks the hard questions. "Do you have any idea what this looks like?" She's the voice that makes your dream stronger by testing it. The doubt that becomes your greatest ally.

Norb

The Chaos Cheerleader

A goat with excellent penmanship and a flair for glitter. Norb delivers notes of encouragement that are short, weird, and unexpectedly moving. "Phase 2 complete. Proceed with optimism. Warm regards, Norb." He is the part of you that just does it. Without overthinking. Without permission. With glitter.

The Raccoons

The Saboteurs

Tiny coordinated jumpsuits. Specialised tools. A union rep. The Raccoons are your procrastination, your self-sabotage — adorable but devastating. They try to dismantle the airlock with a spoon. They file complaints. They suggest maybe you should just watch something instead. You know them. You love them. They must be managed.

What Actually Happens

Not a feature list. A feeling list.

You open the app.

A transmission arrives from the Moon.

(Greg is nervous about this one. Greg is always nervous.)

There's a story. There's a task.

There's a cup of tea.

You write something honest in your Builder's Log.

(Only you can read it. Not us. Not anyone. You.)

Norb leaves a note. It has glitter on it.

You close the app.

You go on with your day.

Something shifts.

Six phases. Forty days. From Dream to Landing. You gather materials, meet the neighbours, board two-by-two, survive the flood, cross space, and find new earth. It's a metaphor. It's also sort of literal. It's complicated. Norb would say don't overthink it.

Warm regards, Norb.

Your Ark. Your Business.

✕ No ads

✕ No data collection

✕ No tracking

✕ No social features

✕ No feeds

✕ No algorithm

The only person who knows what you're building is you.

Your Builder's Log is locked behind Face ID. We can't read it. We don't want to. It's yours.

40 days. One tiny visit. Something worth building.

Begin the Build

You've been building something in your head. Something the world says you can't.