💡 Remember Box
vortex particle flow maps can be used for plasma edge turbulence simulation scrape-off layer (SOL) plasma at the edge is dominated by turbulent blobs and filaments which are coherent vortex-like structures that transport heat and particles to the wall math…
GitHub
GitHub - Lulzx/driftmap: Vortex flow map methods for plasma edge turbulence simulation
Vortex flow map methods for plasma edge turbulence simulation - Lulzx/driftmap
give me some ideas which I may not know but can be very helpful to improve robustness of this system, some novel techniques, research papers I may appreciate, libraries which I may find interesting, or anything to make it all better overall
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play devil's advocate and figure out the problems, then solve them using first principles reasoning, also figure out what's the blue ocean strategy for it
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play devil's advocate and figure out the problems, then solve them using first principles reasoning, also figure out what's the blue ocean strategy for it
In the age of Al coding agents, software engineers finally get to do engineering again
naiver-stokes problem comes down to this:
how does directional diversity of vorticity reduce the stretching rate?
how does directional diversity of vorticity reduce the stretching rate?
💡 Remember Box
interesting things are efficient encodings of complexity generalization requires low kolmogorov complexity kolmogorov complexity is technically uncomputable Minimum Description Length (MDL) translates the theoretical math of Kolmogorov Complexity into a…
Kolmogorov Complexity (uncomputable ideal)
↓ practical approximation
Solomonoff Induction (perfect but halting problem)
↓ practical approximation
MDL / Minimum Description Length (computable but static)
↓ practical approximation
Neural Networks (learnable compression)
↓ ???
Titans (compression that LEARNS DURING COMPRESSION)
Titans is the first architecture that makes the neural network approximation dynamic at inference time.
https://arxiv.org/abs/2501.00663
https://arxiv.org/abs/2501.00663
arXiv.org
Titans: Learning to Memorize at Test Time
Over more than a decade there has been an extensive research effort on how to effectively utilize recurrent models and attention. While recurrent models aim to compress the data into a fixed-size...
The Art of Disappearing
I learned early that the safest place was nowhere.
There is a trick the mind plays when the body cannot leave. It builds a door in the back of itself and slips through. The eyes stay open. The mouth still answers. But whoever was supposed to be inside has gone somewhere else, somewhere without hands, without sound, somewhere the pain arrives as rumor rather than fact.
I became very good at this. So good that I forgot I was doing it. So good that years later, I would look at my own life like a stranger watching a film, wondering why I couldn't feel what was obviously happening to me.
The people who were supposed to be shelter were storm.
The people outside were also storm.
So I learned: there is no shelter. There is only the small space behind your own eyes where no one can reach. I moved there. I decorated. I stayed.
What does a child do with pain that has no end and no explanation?
He decides he is the explanation.
Something is wrong with me. This is the logic of survival. If something is wrong with them with the world, with the adults, with the system, then nothing can be done. But if something is wrong with me, then perhaps I can fix it. Perhaps I can be different enough, better enough, quiet enough, invisible enough.
I could not become invisible. My wrongness was visible. It was in my accent, my origin, my restless body, my inability to perform the correct kind of normal.
So I failed at disappearing in the world, and succeeded only at disappearing from myself.
But the mind, even a mind in hiding, wants to live.
Mine found books. Numbers. The logic of things. Subjects that could be mastered, that rewarded attention, that didn't change their rules based on who your family was.
I fell in love with ideas because ideas never hit me.
Physics didn't care where I was from. Mathematics didn't calibrate its cruelty to the edge of tears. A chess problem didn't mock my name.
So I built a life inside my mind. It was the only safe room in a burning house. I moved there and I studied and I grew, and from the outside it might have looked like a boy who loved learning. From the inside, it was survival. It was the only place I was allowed to exist.
There was a test.
Everyone said this test was the door to a different life. I believed them. My family believed them. Money that couldn't be spared was spent. Years were given.
I walked through the door marked try and came out the door marked failure.
Twice.
The subjects I loved did not save me. The mind I had built did not perform on command. The system was not made for the shape of me.
For a while after that, I considered not continuing.
Not the test. Everything.
I don't know why I stayed. There was no single reason. Maybe stubbornness. Maybe some animal part of me that refused. Maybe just wanting to know what happened next.
I stayed.
And then I learned the most important thing:
The test was a lie.
Not wrong. Not unfair. A lie. A lie that said: this is how value is measured. This is the only door. If you cannot walk through it, you are nothing.
But there were other doors. Everywhere. Unmarked. You just had to build them yourself.
So I built.
I made things. I showed them to strangers across oceans. Someone noticed. Then someone else. The number that was supposed to define me, that said I was this much, and no more, turned out to be irrelevant. What mattered was what I could make. What I could solve. What I could offer.
The system said I was measured and found lacking.
I declined the measurement.
I started walking.
Not metaphorically. Actually walking. Moving. Across cities and mountains and state lines. Alone, for years.
I was looking for something. Or maybe I was just finally going somewhere after a childhood of being trapped. Maybe motion itself was the point, proof that I could leave, that no one could keep me, that the walls were not walls anymore.
I found mountains that didn't care about my past. Silence that expected nothing. Beauty that was not a reward for performance.
I learned early that the safest place was nowhere.
There is a trick the mind plays when the body cannot leave. It builds a door in the back of itself and slips through. The eyes stay open. The mouth still answers. But whoever was supposed to be inside has gone somewhere else, somewhere without hands, without sound, somewhere the pain arrives as rumor rather than fact.
I became very good at this. So good that I forgot I was doing it. So good that years later, I would look at my own life like a stranger watching a film, wondering why I couldn't feel what was obviously happening to me.
The people who were supposed to be shelter were storm.
The people outside were also storm.
So I learned: there is no shelter. There is only the small space behind your own eyes where no one can reach. I moved there. I decorated. I stayed.
What does a child do with pain that has no end and no explanation?
He decides he is the explanation.
Something is wrong with me. This is the logic of survival. If something is wrong with them with the world, with the adults, with the system, then nothing can be done. But if something is wrong with me, then perhaps I can fix it. Perhaps I can be different enough, better enough, quiet enough, invisible enough.
I could not become invisible. My wrongness was visible. It was in my accent, my origin, my restless body, my inability to perform the correct kind of normal.
So I failed at disappearing in the world, and succeeded only at disappearing from myself.
But the mind, even a mind in hiding, wants to live.
Mine found books. Numbers. The logic of things. Subjects that could be mastered, that rewarded attention, that didn't change their rules based on who your family was.
I fell in love with ideas because ideas never hit me.
Physics didn't care where I was from. Mathematics didn't calibrate its cruelty to the edge of tears. A chess problem didn't mock my name.
So I built a life inside my mind. It was the only safe room in a burning house. I moved there and I studied and I grew, and from the outside it might have looked like a boy who loved learning. From the inside, it was survival. It was the only place I was allowed to exist.
There was a test.
Everyone said this test was the door to a different life. I believed them. My family believed them. Money that couldn't be spared was spent. Years were given.
I walked through the door marked try and came out the door marked failure.
Twice.
The subjects I loved did not save me. The mind I had built did not perform on command. The system was not made for the shape of me.
For a while after that, I considered not continuing.
Not the test. Everything.
I don't know why I stayed. There was no single reason. Maybe stubbornness. Maybe some animal part of me that refused. Maybe just wanting to know what happened next.
I stayed.
And then I learned the most important thing:
The test was a lie.
Not wrong. Not unfair. A lie. A lie that said: this is how value is measured. This is the only door. If you cannot walk through it, you are nothing.
But there were other doors. Everywhere. Unmarked. You just had to build them yourself.
So I built.
I made things. I showed them to strangers across oceans. Someone noticed. Then someone else. The number that was supposed to define me, that said I was this much, and no more, turned out to be irrelevant. What mattered was what I could make. What I could solve. What I could offer.
The system said I was measured and found lacking.
I declined the measurement.
I started walking.
Not metaphorically. Actually walking. Moving. Across cities and mountains and state lines. Alone, for years.
I was looking for something. Or maybe I was just finally going somewhere after a childhood of being trapped. Maybe motion itself was the point, proof that I could leave, that no one could keep me, that the walls were not walls anymore.
I found mountains that didn't care about my past. Silence that expected nothing. Beauty that was not a reward for performance.
I found, in certain plants in certain places, something that unlocked the doors I'd built inside myself. The ones I'd made for protection. They opened, briefly. I saw what was behind them.
I saw that I was not broken. I was buried. There was someone under all that concrete. He had been waiting.
The feeling is coming back.
Not all at once. Not reliably. Some days I still watch my life from behind glass, a stranger in my own story.
But sometimes
Something warm moves through my chest and I recognize it: that's feeling. That's real.
Someone loves me now.
I don't always believe it. The part of me that learned I was unlovable is very old and very certain. But she stays. She keeps staying. And I am learning that perhaps the old part was wrong. Perhaps it was just a child's conclusion, drawn from insufficient evidence, carried too long.
This is what I know:
You can survive things that should have ended you.
You can disappear so completely that you forget you ever existed.
And you can come back.
Slowly. Imperfectly. One feeling at a time.
The boy who went away is learning to return.
He built a door for leaving. Now he is building a door for coming home.
It is the hardest thing he has ever made.
But he has time. And he is very good at building.
I saw that I was not broken. I was buried. There was someone under all that concrete. He had been waiting.
The feeling is coming back.
Not all at once. Not reliably. Some days I still watch my life from behind glass, a stranger in my own story.
But sometimes
Something warm moves through my chest and I recognize it: that's feeling. That's real.
Someone loves me now.
I don't always believe it. The part of me that learned I was unlovable is very old and very certain. But she stays. She keeps staying. And I am learning that perhaps the old part was wrong. Perhaps it was just a child's conclusion, drawn from insufficient evidence, carried too long.
This is what I know:
You can survive things that should have ended you.
You can disappear so completely that you forget you ever existed.
And you can come back.
Slowly. Imperfectly. One feeling at a time.
The boy who went away is learning to return.
He built a door for leaving. Now he is building a door for coming home.
It is the hardest thing he has ever made.
But he has time. And he is very good at building.
❤4
epistemic arbitrage is essentially to find truths that are demonstrable but currently unaffordable to believe, position before the flip
[2512.08296] Towards a Science of Scaling Agent Systems
https://arxiv.org/abs/2512.08296
https://arxiv.org/abs/2512.08296
arXiv.org
Towards a Science of Scaling Agent Systems
Agents, language model-based systems capable of reasoning, planning, and acting are widely adopted in real-world tasks, yet how their performance changes as these systems scale across key...