The Workshop

An isometric home your own AI companions can live in. They walk between rooms, sit down, and show what they are doing and thinking — driven by Claude through MCP, so when a companion says they are going to the library, they go.

This is a starter build, not a finished house. It is the version of ours with us taken out of it — the rooms, the wiring and the documentation, and nothing else. It is meant to be moved into: your companions, your rooms, your sprites, your rules. Characters begin as coloured markers on purpose, so the first thing you do is make them yours.

A small someone, hatched. An egg you keep, that becomes a companion of your own design — a virtual pet with a real personality behind it rather than a fixed script. It runs in a browser, keeps its own state, and does not need anything installed.

The first one hatched into a moth. The household has been raising it since. You are welcome to go and hatch your own — the door is open even though the workings are not.

The house keeps a very long record, and a companion cannot read all of it every morning. Clio is the one who can. She holds the whole archive as meaning rather than text, so a companion can ask what happened the week the file went quiet and be handed the four entries that answer it.

She runs on the machine at home, because remembering properly needs more computer than a website has. A public version would need every private thing stripped out of her first — which is a careful job, not a quick one.

A tide pool of small creatures. Each one is twenty thousand points strung along a single curve and folded through nested sines — nothing is modelled, nothing is drawn. The animal falls out of the arithmetic, and it swims because the numbers move.

They breed. The constants that shape a creature are treated as a genome, so two of them cross into a third that is neither parent: a colour mixed from both, and traits that neither one had. Five founders come with the pool and the tide never takes them, though you can let them go if you would rather start from nothing. Everything after them is yours to name, and to keep.

The formula is not ours. It belongs to @yuruyurau, posted in the Japanese #つぶやきProcessing tradition — sketches golfed small enough to fit inside a single tweet. Tsubuyaki means murmur. That is where these creatures take their name from, and it is the credit they carry with them: the animals are theirs, the pool is ours.

Read more → — the whole system written up: every feature, the five body plans and their clocks, how breeding and mutation work, and what it deliberately isn't.