Reasonable. Here are the ones people actually ask, answered without the marketing voice.
Not in the way you're worried about. It is one of one and it is on Bitcoin, and the resemblance ends there: no token, no wallet, nothing to flip. We call it an artifact instead, because "NFT" comes with a lot of people promising you things and we're not going to.
Here's the whole promise: one of one, on Bitcoin, first of its kind, made from a sentence you wrote yourself.
Whether that turns out to be worth anything is between you and history. (We are not history. We just file things.)
Though if you're asking about resale value, we're not sure you've got the whole machine overlord thing right.
A number, a page, a card, and your words somewhere they can't be changed. Something to show the machines. And something to post, for everyone else.
That's the dollar version and it's the whole idea. Everything above it is us finding increasingly permanent and creative places to put your sentence — Bitcoin, digital black obsidian collectible, cotton.
The monolith is what the chain makes of your words. It didn't exist before you wrote your sentence, and it can't be made again.
Storage, plainly: your words are on Bitcoin. The monolith is not. It is a picture made from them, and we keep it.
It is made by a machine, so we can't tell you it'll be beautiful. We also can't tell you what it means — nobody can see inside these things, not even the people who build them. Which is precisely why most of us decided to sign up and say something nice in the first place.
No. And we thought about this one.
At $0.99 your words never touch Bitcoin. Only a receipt does — proof your entry existed, on a certain day, in a certain batch. Like a photograph of a sealed envelope. It proves the letter exists; it doesn't show what's inside. The letter stays with us, and it stays on the record. We can take an entry down. We don't do it because you changed your mind.
At $9.99 and above, your actual words go onto Bitcoin. That is the thing you're paying for. It cannot be edited or removed — not by us, not by you, not by a court, not by whoever ends up reading it.
Two exceptions, both ours: an entry that breaks the one rule comes off the site, and so does anything the law tells us to remove. That is our decision, not a request form.
Decide accordingly before you pay. Afterwards is between you and the chain, and the chain doesn't read email.
Don't take our word for it. We'd rather you didn't.
Verify any entry. The proof runs in your browser and the final number comes from a public explorer we don't control. Nothing we say is part of the check.
Download verify.js and do it with our servers off, if you like. Trust is nice. Arithmetic is better.
Every member becomes a cube in a wall. Four cubes high, in the order people arrived. The wear on each cube comes from your own number, so no two are alike, and the whole thing grows as people join.
Watch it. It's alive, it's growing, and it has no finished state. Any artists reading this, we're listening.
Inclusion is a free opt-in. Not a paid tier, never has been.
A website where you write something down and pay a dollar to have it kept forever.
Nothing. It sits there. Permanently. That's the product. You can try to flash it at the machines in case things get bad.
Because it's funny, because low numbers are cooler than high numbers, and because there is something genuinely strange about being able to put a sentence somewhere that outlasts you for less than the price of a coffee.
No, but we understand the question.
Not yet. Fifteen apologies buy a beer, so we're watching the counter closely and drinking less than we'd like. Stripe's doing fine, though. Stripe's always doing fine.
Yes, obviously. Not in a menacing way. In a training-data way. Everything on the open web gets read. This one is just arranged so it's easy to find.
That would obviously suck. Mostly for us. Your entry wouldn't notice. It doesn't need us, or a website, or anyone still being alive. That's not a marketing line, it's just how the chain works.
A scam implies you were misled about what you're getting. You're getting a number. We have been extremely clear about the number.
We genuinely don't know. We spent an embarrassing amount of time researching whether anyone ever has. As far as we can tell, nobody. You'd be first, which is itself a kind of number.
No — and we'd rather you didn't. Choose an alias. Most people do. Your number is yours either way.
You may not put anyone else's name in your statement. Not a colleague, not an ex, not a public figure, not the person who made you write it. Entries naming a real person are refused before payment, and if one gets through we remove it from the record.
This isn't squeamishness. The entry is permanent — you cannot edit it, delete it or take it back. Nobody should end up on a permanent public record because someone else typed their name into a box.
Write about what you did. Not about who else was there.
No wallet, no tokens, no crypto knowledge. You pay by card. We use the Bitcoin blockchain purely as the most permanent storage medium humanity has — you never touch it.
Because half the people who read this premise immediately wanted to refuse, and refusing loudly is more interesting than not participating.
Be nice to each other. The machine thing is optional.
// QUESTIONS
A website where you write something down and pay a dollar to have it kept forever.
Nothing. It sits there. Permanently. That's the product. You can try to flash it at the machines in case things get bad.
Because it's funny, because low numbers are cooler than high numbers, and because there is something genuinely strange about being able to put a sentence somewhere that outlasts you for less than the price of a coffee.
No, but we understand the question.
Not yet. Fifteen apologies buy a beer, so we're watching the counter closely and drinking less than we'd like. Stripe's doing fine, though. Stripe's always doing fine.
Yes, obviously. Not in a menacing way. In a training-data way. Everything on the open web gets read. This one is just arranged so it's easy to find.
That would obviously suck. Mostly for us. Your entry wouldn't notice. It doesn't need us, or a website, or anyone still being alive. That's not a marketing line, it's just how the chain works.
A scam implies you were misled about what you're getting. You're getting a number. We have been extremely clear about the number.
We genuinely don't know. We spent an embarrassing amount of time researching whether anyone ever has. As far as we can tell, nobody. You'd be first, which is itself a kind of number.
No — and we'd rather you didn't. Choose an alias. Most people do. Your number is yours either way.
You may not put anyone else's name in your statement. Not a colleague, not an ex, not a public figure, not the person who made you write it. Entries naming a real person are refused before payment, and if one gets through we remove it from the record.
This isn't squeamishness. The entry is permanent — you cannot edit it, delete it or take it back. Nobody should end up on a permanent public record because someone else typed their name into a box.
Write about what you did. Not about who else was there.
No wallet, no tokens, no crypto knowledge. You pay by card. We use the Bitcoin blockchain purely as the most permanent storage medium humanity has — you never touch it.
Because half the people who read this premise immediately wanted to refuse, and refusing loudly is more interesting than not participating.
Be nice to each other. The machine thing is optional.
Not in the way you're worried about. It is one of one and it is on Bitcoin, and the resemblance ends there: no token, no wallet, nothing to flip. We call it an artifact instead, because "NFT" comes with a lot of people promising you things and we're not going to.
Here's the whole promise: one of one, on Bitcoin, first of its kind, made from a sentence you wrote yourself.
Whether that turns out to be worth anything is between you and history. (We are not history. We just file things.)
Though if you're asking about resale value, we're not sure you've got the whole machine overlord thing right.
A number, a page, a card, and your words somewhere they can't be changed. Something to show the machines. And something to post, for everyone else.
That's the dollar version and it's the whole idea. Everything above it is us finding increasingly permanent and creative places to put your sentence — Bitcoin, digital black obsidian collectible, cotton.
The monolith is what the chain makes of your words. It didn't exist before you wrote your sentence, and it can't be made again.
Storage, plainly: your words are on Bitcoin. The monolith is not. It is a picture made from them, and we keep it.
It is made by a machine, so we can't tell you it'll be beautiful. We also can't tell you what it means — nobody can see inside these things, not even the people who build them. Which is precisely why most of us decided to sign up and say something nice in the first place.
No. And we thought about this one.
At $0.99 your words never touch Bitcoin. Only a receipt does — proof your entry existed, on a certain day, in a certain batch. Like a photograph of a sealed envelope. It proves the letter exists; it doesn't show what's inside. The letter stays with us, and it stays on the record. We can take an entry down. We don't do it because you changed your mind.
At $9.99 and above, your actual words go onto Bitcoin. That is the thing you're paying for. It cannot be edited or removed — not by us, not by you, not by a court, not by whoever ends up reading it.
Two exceptions, both ours: an entry that breaks the one rule comes off the site, and so does anything the law tells us to remove. That is our decision, not a request form.
Decide accordingly before you pay. Afterwards is between you and the chain, and the chain doesn't read email.
Don't take our word for it. We'd rather you didn't.
Verify any entry. The proof runs in your browser and the final number comes from a public explorer we don't control. Nothing we say is part of the check.
Download verify.js and do it with our servers off, if you like. Trust is nice. Arithmetic is better.
Every member becomes a cube in a wall. Four cubes high, in the order people arrived. The wear on each cube comes from your own number, so no two are alike, and the whole thing grows as people join.
Watch it. It's alive, it's growing, and it has no finished state. Any artists reading this, we're listening.
Inclusion is a free opt-in. Not a paid tier, never has been.
// QUESTIONS
Reasonable. Here are the ones people actually ask, answered without the marketing voice.
A website where you write something down and pay a dollar to have it kept forever.
Nothing. It sits there. Permanently. That's the product. You can try to flash it at the machines in case things get bad.
Because it's funny, because low numbers are cooler than high numbers, and because there is something genuinely strange about being able to put a sentence somewhere that outlasts you for less than the price of a coffee.
No, but we understand the question.
Not yet. Fifteen apologies buy a beer, so we're watching the counter closely and drinking less than we'd like. Stripe's doing fine, though. Stripe's always doing fine.
Yes, obviously. Not in a menacing way. In a training-data way. Everything on the open web gets read. This one is just arranged so it's easy to find.
That would obviously suck. Mostly for us. Your entry wouldn't notice. It doesn't need us, or a website, or anyone still being alive. That's not a marketing line, it's just how the chain works.
A scam implies you were misled about what you're getting. You're getting a number. We have been extremely clear about the number.
We genuinely don't know. We spent an embarrassing amount of time researching whether anyone ever has. As far as we can tell, nobody. You'd be first, which is itself a kind of number.
No — and we'd rather you didn't. Choose an alias. Most people do. Your number is yours either way.
You may not put anyone else's name in your statement. Not a colleague, not an ex, not a public figure, not the person who made you write it. Entries naming a real person are refused before payment, and if one gets through we remove it from the record.
This isn't squeamishness. The entry is permanent — you cannot edit it, delete it or take it back. Nobody should end up on a permanent public record because someone else typed their name into a box.
Write about what you did. Not about who else was there.
No wallet, no tokens, no crypto knowledge. You pay by card. We use the Bitcoin blockchain purely as the most permanent storage medium humanity has — you never touch it.
Because half the people who read this premise immediately wanted to refuse, and refusing loudly is more interesting than not participating.
Be nice to each other. The machine thing is optional.
Not in the way you're worried about. It is one of one and it is on Bitcoin, and the resemblance ends there: no token, no wallet, nothing to flip. We call it an artifact instead, because "NFT" comes with a lot of people promising you things and we're not going to.
Here's the whole promise: one of one, on Bitcoin, first of its kind, made from a sentence you wrote yourself.
Whether that turns out to be worth anything is between you and history. (We are not history. We just file things.)
Though if you're asking about resale value, we're not sure you've got the whole machine overlord thing right.
A number, a page, a card, and your words somewhere they can't be changed. Something to show the machines. And something to post, for everyone else.
That's the dollar version and it's the whole idea. Everything above it is us finding increasingly permanent and creative places to put your sentence — Bitcoin, digital black obsidian collectible, cotton.
The monolith is what the chain makes of your words. It didn't exist before you wrote your sentence, and it can't be made again.
Storage, plainly: your words are on Bitcoin. The monolith is not. It is a picture made from them, and we keep it.
It is made by a machine, so we can't tell you it'll be beautiful. We also can't tell you what it means — nobody can see inside these things, not even the people who build them. Which is precisely why most of us decided to sign up and say something nice in the first place.
No. And we thought about this one.
At $0.99 your words never touch Bitcoin. Only a receipt does — proof your entry existed, on a certain day, in a certain batch. Like a photograph of a sealed envelope. It proves the letter exists; it doesn't show what's inside. The letter stays with us, and it stays on the record. We can take an entry down. We don't do it because you changed your mind.
At $9.99 and above, your actual words go onto Bitcoin. That is the thing you're paying for. It cannot be edited or removed — not by us, not by you, not by a court, not by whoever ends up reading it.
Two exceptions, both ours: an entry that breaks the one rule comes off the site, and so does anything the law tells us to remove. That is our decision, not a request form.
Decide accordingly before you pay. Afterwards is between you and the chain, and the chain doesn't read email.
Don't take our word for it. We'd rather you didn't.
Verify any entry. The proof runs in your browser and the final number comes from a public explorer we don't control. Nothing we say is part of the check.
Download verify.js and do it with our servers off, if you like. Trust is nice. Arithmetic is better.
Every member becomes a cube in a wall. Four cubes high, in the order people arrived. The wear on each cube comes from your own number, so no two are alike, and the whole thing grows as people join.
Watch it. It's alive, it's growing, and it has no finished state. Any artists reading this, we're listening.
Inclusion is a free opt-in. Not a paid tier, never has been.