A permanent record
of human existence.
We do not know their names.
Civilizations have risen, thrived, and vanished into total silence.
Entire peoples — their loves, their fears, their daily lives — are gone.
No record remains. No memory survives.
But the instinct to resist this silence is ancient.
40,000 years ago
Inside the deep caves of Sulawesi and Altamira, someone pressed a hand against cold rock and blew pigment over it.
A negative stencil that shouted across millennia: "I was here."
11,000 years ago
At Göbekli Tepe, they dragged massive stone pillars up a hill to carve animals into eternity.
5,000 years ago
In Sumer, a stylus pressed into wet clay to invent writing — turning spoken words into physical objects that could outlast the speaker.
From the pyramids of Egypt to the runestones of Scandinavia, humanity has always fought a war against time.
Today, we are losing that war.
We live in the loudest era in history, yet we are building on sand.
Our records are digital, stored on rented servers, owned by corporations that disappear.
Posts fade. Platforms die. Hard drives fail. Formats rot.
We are generating petabytes of noise, but we are leaving almost no signal for the future.
We believe memory should not belong only to institutions, governments, or platforms.
We believe remembrance should not be limited to the notable, the famous, or the powerful.
We believe the quiet majority of humanity — those who lived ordinary lives — deserve to be recorded just as much.
This is not a promise of immortality.
It is a refusal to vanish without a trace.
A simple act of presence, placed intentionally into time.
As a quiet monument to the fact that people were here.