A short catalogue of obsessions.
Not a list — a map. The films I rewatch, the music I think in, the cars I'd own if I were unreasonable, the food I'd order anywhere. Updated whenever something earns its place.
Mind.
I keep returning to writers who refuse to make existence comfortable — the absurdists, the postmodernists, the ones who treat meaning like a question rather than a possession.
Cinema.
Films where the frame does half the talking. I want texture, silence, dread, and a slow camera. The medium is wasted on plot.
Lens.
Anything with chiaroscuro, weight, and a sense that no one is watching. Portraits that catch a thought, places that feel paused.
Sound.
Music that holds a room — modular synths breathing, a horn section thinking out loud, a piano alone in a hall.
Style.
A small, repeating wardrobe in dark grey, dark leather, and silk. The goal is to look like you took it seriously without looking like you tried.
Space.
Clean lines, low light, big glass, real trees inside. Scandinavian restraint dropped into an industrial shell, fully automated, quietly alive.
Plate.
Iraqi food at home, Michelin tasting menus when I travel, a glass of something amber afterwards.
Road.
Sports cars with restraint, luxury cars with engineering. And the cabin at full-blast AC, regardless of season.
Wild.
Thunderstorms, foreign alleys at 2am, forests with no service. I like trips that are not quite safe and not quite planned.
Body.
Shredded, mobile, calm. High-intensity work for the body, slow work for the nervous system. Both required.
Craft.
Open, owned, and obsessive about the details. Pixel-perfect interfaces sitting on top of small, fast services in Rust and Go.
“I'm worthy because I'm curious, not because I'm smart.”