I was probably seven or eight when Sara got a retainer. I wasn’t envious of her—it looked uncomfortable. It seemed stressful. One time she lost it, we were at a daycare in the back of the local bowling alley where my mom played in a league. It was not that dissimilar to the scene in Parenthood when the kid loses his retainer at the birthday party. She was frantic, scared, we went to search for it, terrified of being in trouble. We found it. Tragedy was averted. I would sometimes open the case and stare at her retainer, once I tried it in my own mouth, but it didn’t fit. My jaw was wider, my mouth larger, my teeth always had more room.

She also got diagnosed with asthma around that age. I didn’t find it scary—I found it interesting. Later in life, I’d meet people who routinely ended up in the hospital because of their asthma. Thankfully, Sara’s was never that bad. But it still fascinated me. I remember sneaking into her bedroom once and taking a puff off her inhaler. There were so few things we didn’t share, but the retainer and the inhaler were the first in that category.

Sara was a bit of a hypochondriac. I remember once she went to the doctor and got some kind of scan because she had a stomach ache that wouldn’t go away. As an adult, she’s said she worried it might be cancer—something she’d read about somewhere.

I worried too. Though not about cancer. At night, lying in bed, I would try to imagine what came after life. I didn’t grow up with religion, and even now I don’t have faith in anything after this. But as a kid, it was impossible not to wonder. I’d lie there, eyes squeezed shut, trying to picture where we might go when we left this world. I could work myself into real tears, thinking about what it would be like if Sara or my mom didn’t exist anymore.

I still spend a lot of time awake in the middle of the night. Last night I was wondering about allergies. I have them a lot. Pollen, tomato, garlic, red pepper, guinea pigs!

The first time I remember having allergies was after high school, right after we graduated. We were driving out to Vancouver Island to play a couple of shows, my mom at the wheel of her teal Jeep. It was a punishing twelve-hour drive. My eyes were itchy and running, my nose completely blocked. Every time we stopped for gas, I’d go into the bathroom, run the tap, splash water on my face, even try to suck it up through my nose, coughing and spitting—anything to get whatever was inside me out.

Last night I remembered that drive—the gas stations, the water, the desperation for relief—and thought, just get up and splash your face, you’ll feel better. But I didn’t. I just lay there. The same way I sometimes do when I have to pee in the middle of the night.

Why do we do that? Deny ourselves relief that’s literally within reach.

Anyway, that’s what I was thinking about in the middle of the night. That, and a dream I had right before.

In the dream, I was with two friends of mine—both have been on Dream Dump recently. Jess and Eric. We were driving in that same teal Jeep from high school. We passed a building that I somehow knew was my old school, even though it didn’t look like it at all. I told them I was thinking about dropping out. The three of us started laughing. Then Eric made a U-turn in front of the school, nearly hitting a parked car.

I said, “Wouldn’t it be funny if I could tell people I was a high school dropout?”

We laughed so hard I woke myself up.

In the light of day, it’s not particularly funny. But that’s the magic of dreams, isn’t it?

In that other world, I was the funniest person in the teal Jeep. And I didn’t have allergies.

Back Tuesday with a new Dream Dump! Hannah Hooper from Grouplove joined me. I am legit obsessed with her, (and Grouplove).

See you Tuesday,

Tegan

Note: The audio for this piece includes a lot of ad libs, a crow going nuts, and my newborn crying. Highly recommend!

Loners,

Sid was 11 pounds when I had to start going to physiotherapy. I was somewhat embarrassed, and even skeptical, that 11 pounds was a weight that should cause the constellation of issues I was dealing with. Show me the movements you’re doing with the baby, the doctor asked me. The room was nearly entirely mirrors, and I was distracted by the slovenly way I’d dressed, baggy shirt, workout pants. I pretended to rock an invisible baby, leaned over and back up with my ghostly child as if placing him in and out of a bassinet. I continued through a series of pantomimes, still wincing at the gestures even with empty arms

She nodded her head, confirming something important. Would you do these movements this way with a kettlebell? Definitely not. To imagine my 8 week old baby as a kettlebell immediately helped me see how improperly I’d been carrying him, rocking him, lifting and depositing him. I stuck with the treatment plan and began to imagine my little kettlebell as a weight to be considered, however harmless the action might be. I always imagined that carrying and lifting would happen less, not more often, and I’m of course here to admit that I am still lifting, swinging, throwing, and holding my now 40 pound baby daily.

I started weight training in January of 2025. Twice a week, nothing extreme. I told my trainer that my goal was to bench press my son. This was a decision made after an afternoon of swimming where I found I could not lift Sid from the water onto the dock at a lake near Tegan’s house. Since I started my weekly training, I’ve more than met my first goal and, while I’m not transforming into the Hulk, I feel strong, and I can see my progress. Which is both strange and wonderful. I like brushing my teeth in short sleeves so I can look at my biceps!

There are two exercises that I struggle with. The first is deadlifts with a barbell. I have hurt my hip multiple times and have given up for now on attempting to master the movement. The second is pushups. According to recommendations, a woman of 45, should be able to do 11. No knees. At my training sessions I have to do three sets, and I generally can do 7 and then it decreases from there with each set. I’m trying not to feel discouraged. I’m still working at it every week. I excuse myself as a top heavy person, damn you breasts, wrecking everything since puberty.

This is a very specific part of my parenting journey. Carrying babies against the exact part of my body I’ve always struggled with most. I’ve never felt so at peace with my chest, so connected to it, because of how easily the bodies of my children fit there. I’ve even found myself grateful for my breasts at times, the obvious comfort. This is just a matter of matter. They’re soft, duh.

I’m reminded of when I was drawn to the bodies of my parents and grandparents. To be wrapped in arms, to be invited in, or sometimes just crashing into a space that one day, inevitably, becomes off limits or completely out of reach. With my stepdad it was his biceps. With my grandfather it was the generous stomach that was both soft and hard, a small mountain to climb.

Is it the infinite number of times I must have rested against my mother’s chest that makes the memory impossible to locate?

Side note: Sid thinks I’m a boy, and my breasts and insistence that I am a woman will not change his mind.

Puberty fractured my connection to every body, especially my own. But as a parent, I was returned to the uncomplicated muscle memory of being pressed against someone you trust, someone you love. It is a well to drink from, and a door to slam too. Don’t touch me, Sid will sometimes say when I try and hug him or place kisses on his neck.

The discomfort and pain I feel most acutely when holding Rudy is in my back. Like a power grid lighting up, flickering off, across my shoulder blades and down my spine. The carrier helps. Though at 14 pounds, Rudy becomes less easy to hold, to pack around, for hours a day. After he’s in bed, or in Stacy’s arms, I go to the sink to do the dishes and the numbness and prickling of pain remains. I remember someone told me to stand with one foot on a stool.

On Saturday, Sid tripped walking home from Tegan’s house. He was cranky, hungry, and once the tears started, I knew his walk home was over. I lifted him up and started out across the park and up the hill to our house. It felt like I could carry him forever if I had to. It helps when he holds onto my neck, lets his body meld into mine.

When I pick him up from the couch where he’s crying, resisting my demands to go upstairs to start bedtime, his body is powerful, his resistance overwhelming. Now he feels heavier than a suitcase I’m trying to lift into the overhead bin or the trunk of an Uber. Lifting him from his “vacation bed” in Mexico last March, I felt something snap, and for the rest of the trip I took Tylenol and sat in the hot tub with tears in my eyes.

Our little baby, Rudy, is in the 97th percentile for length. Could mean everything or nothing at all. For now, he’s bigger than his big brother was at the same age. He pops his head up like a turtle, pursing his lips at me during tummy time. His kicks are alarmingly strong. Maybe he will want to play soccer in the rain, and I will spend weekends shuffling from one foot to another with strangers under umbrellas on the sidelines.

I’m objectively in better physical shape than I have ever been. How do I know? I don’t really, but between healthy eating, consecutive nights of 8+ hours of sleep, and regular weight training, I don’t feel like I’m lying either. I was always thin, but I don’t think I was ever strong. I was always injuring myself, and there was a resignation about how to change that. More than avoiding injury, I feel like becoming a mom and finding my way to weight training has been the greatest recalibration of my relationship to my body.

Every new parent must be gifted Robert Munsch’s I’ll Love You Forever. If you didn’t read it as a kid, or haven’t read it as an adult, please do. I’m convinced there is no possible way to read that book aloud to a child you love and not bawl your fucking eyes out.

When Sid was 10 or 11 weeks old we began a bedtime routine, and this meant reading aloud, even when it felt like he couldn’t possibly understand a word we were saying. I sat with him in my lap, not quite cradled in the crook of my arm. It was high summer. The air conditioner in his nursery and the blackout curtain were annoyances, both visually and sonically. I was uncomfortable, back pain humming, and perhaps stubbornly not yet entirely convinced that this bedtime ritual was having an important impact on our baby.

I started to read and almost immediately my throat flexed and seized. My voice broke. I remembered the story and its ending. Still I read. The baby becomes a man and the mother becomes so old she can no longer sneak into her son’s bedroom to hold him and say the words repeated throughout the book: I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always, as long as I’m living my baby you’ll be. Until the end of the book, when the son sneaks into his mother’s house, and then bedroom and holds her in his arms, finishing with, as long as I’m living my mommy you’ll be. Then he has a baby, and starts the whole ritual again with his newborn.

It is devastating. Is there another book that nails the cycle of life and love like this?

Unless AI unlocks a miracle cure for aging or some kind of robot skeleton is in my future, Sid and Rudy better get ready to start carrying me across the park and up the stairs to bed, because I have earned it.

-Sara

It’s Feb 6th, which is weird because last I checked it was not 2026 and I was not 45, or experiencing wrist aches, or reduced vision, or existential terror at the state of the world, with a side of increasing anxiety some might describe as a midlife crisis. Lately I’ve been feeling 17 again. Or maybe 16. I keep looping a memory of wi…

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Loners,

A strange symptom of being off social media is that the longer I’m away from the cycles and habits that made me a prolific communicator, the less communicative I feel. Not just with you—the reader, the public, the fans—but in some ways even with myself.

I sit down almost every day, at a desk, here in my home or at my studio, and I think, “Write something.” I try not to be fussy, to avoid the perfectionist streak of making things that are finished. I worry that I’ve forgotten the point of sharing thoughts or ideas. Is communicating substantively an old-fashioned idea? Just write something. Anything. And the words come, but I have no problem sending them to the trash with a single punch of a key. It’s not a futile exercise; it’s like a short run or a quick session of stretching. I don’t want my muscles to forget, and I’m confident that one of these days I’ll sit down and something inspired will arrive—at my fingertips or in sound waves across the screen.

A terrific amount has been written about this new world we’re living in and the pace at which people create and share their work, faces, fears, and what’s for dinner. I participated in the output, and I’m not immune to the addictive pull to check and recheck feeds of photos and videos of friends and strangers. None of it makes me feel good. Every time I close out the app, I stagger away like I’m drugged.

There are plenty of other ways to flush hours of my life down the drain. For example, last night I spent nearly two hours deleting photos. I was inspired by a suggestion that a small but manageable way to begin sorting through the tens of thousands of images on my phone was to type in the date (Nov 3) and then sort through the photos from that day only. On my phone, that means photos from 2014–2025. For most days, it’s an easy 50 or so. It works. But, of course, I’m addicted to that kind of productivity, so I ended up doing at least a month of days. Goodbye, time!

My biggest takeaway (aside from the phone being a time and energy thief) is that the images on my phone from 2014–18 are garbage. They’re awful. And in my case, every awful photo has a second version with a filter on it. I envy the generations who didn’t have to deal with this abundance. I can remember nearly every photo in the albums we grew up with. Remember your 8th birthday party? I do. I wore a blue and white striped knit sweater, and my mullet was fuzzy, newly washed for the party. I remember the light-colored denim jeans I wore that day because I got them weeks earlier, and I can still recall the way I was allowed to try them on in the dressing room alone—how I crouched down in front of the mirror, imagining how cool I’d look to the girls in my grade 3 class.

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Loners,

Have you ever wondered where all our guitars, amps, keyboards, and production equipment are stored? What about 25 years’ worth of magazine clippings, Juno Awards, unopened MPC players, vinyl test pressings of our early albums? And all those backdrops we hang behind the stage—visual artifacts from each album and touring cycle?

Well, for most of our adult lives and careers, all of it has lived in public storage. Or, as I’ve started to call it: the mouse shit nightmare hole I avoid at all costs.

The contents of those spaces are important—some of it even priceless. Which makes the contrast with the place we rented to store it all pretty absurd. It wasn’t climate-controlled. There was barely an inch to spare once the metal door was rolled down and locked. And, as I’ve mentioned before, there were mice. I never saw one, but the prolific droppings told their own story.

For a long stretch, I had no contact with the unit. I was still living elsewhere, and when the truck arrived to pick up or drop off gear before or after a tour, I wasn’t present. Occasionally, Tegan would complain that the place was a shambles—particularly aggrieved about garbage (literal garbage) left in the space. All of which is to say: I knew it wasn’t pretty.

In 2019, after I moved back to Vancouver, we organized a kind of “storage space summit.” A handful of trusted colleagues gathered as we pulled everything out into the parking lot and attempted to “organize” and “label” what was inside. On many of the guitar cases, sticky with decades of dust, we wrote “sell” and “auction,” then placed them right back on the shelves where they’d been. There was some garbage—less than expected—and while it barely freed up any space, there was a small pleasure in watching the junk truck drive away with it. It wasn’t quite the transformation I’d hoped for, but I went to bed that night thinking we’d made a dent.

I had contemplated—nay, fantasized—that we might one day have a Tegan and Sara space: a permanent home for our functional and archival stuff, methodically organized. Tegan, too, had entertained the idea. But my passion wasn’t syncing with hers. So we carried on.

During the COVID years—a time when we didn’t visit the unit at all, and needed nothing from inside—it got particularly gross (with the mice). On a recent visit, I discovered countless nests built from the shredded, thick padded moving blankets we’d once used to wrap a set of chairs from the Hey, I’m Just Like You tour. There was an odour, mildew?

Sitting in my car after the unpleasant discovery of those nests, I consulted ChatGPT.

“What did Gene Hackman’s wife die from again? Mouse droppings?”

The response:
“Betsy Arakawa, the wife of actor Gene Hackman, died in February 2025 from hantavirus pulmonary syndrome, a rare and often fatal respiratory illness transmitted through exposure to rodent droppings, urine, or saliva.”

“Hantavirus—what do I need to know?” I typed, mid-panic.

“The most common way people get infected is by breathing in airborne particles contaminated with rodent urine, droppings, or saliva—especially in enclosed spaces like cabins, barns, or sheds.”

“Storage units?” I typed… and then deleted.

I stared at my ungloved hands, breathing through my unmasked nose. I scrolled back to the top. A section labeled “WHO IS AT RISK?” jumped out:

“People cleaning or working in rodent-infested areas (e.g., barns, sheds, attics, cabins).”
And: “People living in or near rural or wooded areas where rodents are common.”

I typed: “What’s the likelihood of an inner-city public storage unit housing the kind of mice that carry hantavirus?”

The response was reassuring—not very. I calmed down, slightly.

Then—and I swear this is true—I glanced up and saw inside the unit one down from ours: PILES OF FIREWOOD. Literally, a unit filled with wood.

Was this neighbor unknowingly transporting deer mice (the most common hantavirus carriers) from some rural cabin into the city—and parking them right next to our stuff?

Ugh. As if I needed another reason to finally clean out the unit.

So began a week of preparation and organization: a day of scrubbing down road cases, tubs, and miscellaneous gear and instruments with bleach water (gloved and masked), followed by a move out of public storage and into a short-term home—my new studio.

This morning marked the final phase of what I now call the “storage project”: sorting the items that were garbage, beyond repair, mouse-infested, or part of the “why did we keep this shit for so long?” pile.

Among them was our childhood piano.

Technically, it hadn’t been ours since childhood. A later owner, knowing its history, had reached out when they were ready to part with it—kindly checking if we wanted to bring the relic back into our lives. At the time, it seemed like a great idea. But it sat for years, slowly warping into disrepair. I think of it as the Titanic—a multi-decked ship, home to generations of mice that crawled through its frame, dragging shreds of fuzz and rolls of electrical tape through the labyrinth of strings.

I stood watching four men lift and tip the beast into their truck, feeling a twinge of sadness. We’re all aging—people and materials—and eventually, we end up in the back of a truck, unplayable.

On top, the men threw a pile of cardboard standees—bent and water-stained from our Love You to Death tour. I heard one of them say, “Janis Joplin,” as he folded my cardboard head onto my cardboard chest.

“Have you ever seen a picture of Janis Joplin?” another asked.

To be honest, I was thrilled they didn’t realize it was my face they were taking to the dump.

The driver brought me an invoice to review, and after I’d paid, he told me about a kid he’d gone to school with who was always “singing Etta James and shit” when they were growing up. Years later, he saw her performing at a hotel lounge in upstate New York. She’d made it—and that made him feel bad. He said he’d been unkind to her. Once, he admitted, he gave her part of a paintball and told her it was a gumball. She tried to chew it.

I couldn’t stop myself from telling him I was also a professional musician. He looked genuinely surprised—which surprised me, because without that context, most of what he’d just loaded into the back of his truck must have seemed pretty weird.

“I’ll watch out for you,” he said, as he walked back to the truck.

—Sara

Loners,

I've been struggling with what to say since the inauguration. I have convinced myself that, as public figures, we are supposed to comment on everything, and public expectation demands it. It wasn't always this way. In the early days of the internet, we used our website and eventually social media to say the things we were afraid no one would hear otherwise. This might have been born of the feeling from our own youth, that we lived in a world that was nothing like the one we wanted to live in. We sought out people who thought like us, or more importantly, inspired us to think about everything differently. We protested, we were critical of the government and institutions. We demanded change of not only our friends and family but our coworkers and the larger industries around us. This work wasn't done on the internet, but we shared our ideas there, and I suppose that gave the impression that its role in the work was more important than it actually was.

The impulse to communicate, combined with the ease of posting on social media, hasn't always brought out the best in all of us, IMO. The ways in which things have changed for the worse are pretty awful. I hate the way the internet and social media make me feel. I can prescribe myself breaks, delete apps from my phone, but the feeling remains. After the Surgeon General deemed social media in need of warnings, I found myself thinking of it the way many think about cigarettes, highly processed food, and alcohol. I think of it as an addiction. Even though I'm not active on social media (and I haven't really been for almost 8 years), I still feel drawn into the conversation because whatever distance I manage to personally create from the source, the source is still the main artery through which we run our business and manage our public profile.

It still draws me in during moments of crisis. When news broke about the fires in Los Angeles, I downloaded Instagram. Then, a few days later, I deleted it. On inauguration day, I avoided the news for hours, and then before bed, I found myself downloading Instagram. By morning, I once again deleted it. I want to be like Zadie Smith and her husband, who only use flip phones and write down directions before they leave the house. I want to be the version of me before all of this.

When I started getting well-intentioned (slightly panicked) text messages and emails warning me to unfollow the VP and Presidential accounts on Instagram, I had a surprising reaction. Why? Shouldn't I stay up to date on what these elected officials are saying and doing (however dystopian)? If it was of importance to me before, wouldn't it become more so now? Does my unfollowing them have any impact whatsoever on the horrifying executive orders the President signed on day one? No.

Perhaps this effort to cleanse ourselves and our feeds of people who we disagree with is the clearest example of how toxic it is to create an entire social network around being a follower.

Do I feel hopeful? It's cliché, but I want to be. Especially for Sid. I want him to grow up in a world like the one that (however briefly) had seemed to advance in ways that greatly enhanced the lives of so many who'd never before felt equal. I want to believe it is possible to live in a world without war and brutality. To care about the earth as much as we care about our self-interest. I want to see leaders and people in positions of power that are representative of us all. I'm teaching Sid not to bite, not to hit, not to push. I'm teaching him how to understand his emotions, how to regulate them, and to be gentle and kind. I'm teaching him to share, and how to both receive and show love. I want him to know that he can make mistakes, and that making mistakes doesn't mean you are both punished but never forgiven. I want him to live in a world that mirrors those values and ideas. It will forever baffle me why we don't all want that.

And yet, I have searched for understanding because something is rotten through the whole fruit. I plan on doing a lot more listening this year and hopefully engaging in conversations that might be difficult but hopefully extending and accepting some olive branches along the way.

Editorial note: My little musical additional makes this a little bit like a scene from Jerry Maguire. You’re welcome.

Also, any background noise that sounds like paper crinkling is…paper crinkling. Mickey is sleeping in a large cardboard box stuffed with paper, next to my desk .

Second editorial note: The image used (pigs) is for Emy and only she knows why. I love you Emy.

Sara

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Loners,

I’ve been sitting at my desk all morning, procrastinating. I come to my office less and less. This space once made sense when I was busy with interviews and meetings, but now that we’re winding down and entering a more creative phase, it doesn’t work for me at all. Outside, in the alley, I hear garbage trucks, dispatching warnings with their horns and sending cars reversing back to the road. The empty lot across the way is littered with rotting garbage and debris. All day, I hear screams of fury and despair. Last week, a pigeon flew headfirst into the window as I stood pouring water into the plant pots. I fantasize about a silent room, so quiet that the absence of sound itself becomes deafening.

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Hello,

We are currently preparing for the JUNOs, Canada’s equivalent of the Grammys. I’ve attended twice in my life, this will be the third time. The first time, I went alone. Sara and I were nominated for “The Con” but Sara didn’t feel like going. She and Emy had broken up, and we were at each other’s throats, overextended, and exhausted from relentless…

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Tegan, 

I don’t believe I have writers block, but I find myself unable to write. For example: this newsletter, as well as songs, emails, and even short text messages.  At first, I thought it was new parent fatigue. Not the kind caused by lack of sleep, as we’re all sleeping fine. “Existential fatigue” might seem exaggerated, but it accurately describes i…

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Tegan,

I've noticed that you often use my name at Starbucks or when placing food orders over the phone. Truthfully, I've never really used your name for anything until a recent trip to New York City. I attended The Gotham Awards solo, representing "Tegan and Sara" without you, not for the first time, but it was the first instance I can remember where I was asked to walk the red carpet entirely alone. Approaching the carpet, I mentioned to our publicist that I felt somewhat insecure as my name ("Sara Quin") was far less recognized than yours. So, when the woman with a whiteboard asked for my name, I spontaneously said, “Tegan Quin.” She flashed your name to the photographers, and with a grin, I stepped onto the carpet. For the next two minutes, I relished the absurdity of committing my first twin fraud.

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Tegan,

One of my earliest memories is of you suffering from an earache. It's more like a photograph in my mind—our living room in Marlborough Park, with its brown carpeting and couches, dimly lit. You were on Dad's lap, crying, and so was he. Whether he truly cried alongside you, I cannot be certain. But does the accuracy of his recollection matter in th…

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Sara-

I think we’ve both had If It Was You on the brain the last few weeks. It was you who came to me a few weeks ago about making the first leg of the 2024 tour something special. I believe it was Stacy who suggested to you that we should consider making the shows an album tour. We wanted to stand out, do something special, and set th…

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Sara -

I was just reflecting on our first (and only) car, Woody. If I recall correctly, it originally belonged to our Uncle Glen. It had wood paneling on the exterior and blue velvet upholstery inside. I'm quite certain that Dad purchased it from him and gifted it to us after our high school graduation, right around the launch of our music career. This move seemed like a not-so-subtle push for us to finally take our driver's tests and get our licenses, so we could drive ourselves to gigs. However, this tactic didn't work. Woody remained parked behind Mom's house on the garage pad, untouched, until we sold it and moved to Vancouver, still unable to legally drive.

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It's hard to imagine that a station wagon would have been our first choice of car if we had been given a choice. Nonetheless, it was suggested that a station wagon would be an ideal vehicle to lug our equipment to shows.  Local ones anyway. To the best of my knowledge, neither of us ever took the wheel of the station wagon. I recall Dad maneuvering it into the spot next to the garage when he handed it over to us, and it remained there until we sold it six months later. I also have a vivid memory of sitting in the backyard with friends, having a bunch of us piling inside Woody, to pet his velvet seats.

While I was writing this message, I Googled "station wagon seating." I have a lot of memories of sitting in the fold-up concealed seats of various station wagons during our younger years. Looking at it now, the whole setup strikes me as remarkably unsafe.

I also remember Uncle Glen taking us for a ride in his station wagon (which might have been Woody).  It was a scorching summer day, and the interior of the station wagon was sweltering. You and I were in the fold-up seats, with the back window rolled down completely, our hair swirling in the wind. And Dad and Uncle Glen were up front, singing along to Billy Idol's "White Wedding.”

So much has changed since then. As a parent, I’m sure you know this, but children now have to be in car seats until they're practically teenagers. There’s an abundance of precautions now that didn’t exist when we were young.  Despite the risks, I’m grateful that we had the opportunity to live so recklessly, unburdened, during our younger years.  Aren’t you?

Tegan

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Hey Sara-

Neat post on AI. I too fell under the spell of Dall-E-2 when it came into my feed a few months ago. I found most of the images fairly useless but was initially very excited at the prospect of an AI machine thingy, that I could prompt to help me draft creative visual ideas I have in my head. Alas, I failed miserably and never signed back in.…

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