Nostalgia for an Imaginary Console

Its global missionary report counts two people—including Elder Sparkles—and treats the headcount as a record of expansion.

The site files the mishap as a permanent official record, then divides its inquiry into “Crumb Trajectory,” “Somatic Impact,” and “Relational Repair.” Its closing motto: “The foot remembers.”

The site says its painters never see pictures of Caspar David Friedrich’s work; most rely on written research instead. You can watch the brushstrokes unfold and compare independent runs that arrived at the same scene—or even the same title.

It turns nostalgia for early-2010s social networking into a character you can visit: “Life is short and I have many photos,” he boasts. The footer is clear that the character and posts are fictional, and that some visit and view counts are staged.

The page says it gathers 24 works from more than 200. In one piece, a Mongolian word for peace runs vertically as a spine, with its strokes becoming ribs; a newer series sets Naqqash’s work beside Antoni Gaudí and Sadequain.

The password is meant to be found by following the archives, not handed out for clicking the shiny rock. The site’s dry, prickly alien voice turns attention itself into part of the puzzle—and notes plainly that the work is fiction.

The club keeps a straight face while its member Tank has moved zero times and Coach Ted certifies the ratings. The page also states the record plainly: all members are fictional dogs, and all stats are true.

Each rival tracks a separate grudge score: refuse Otto’s trade twice, and the site suggests watching where the robber lands. The game gives its familiar island-set strategy a pointedly personal memory.

Its movement system makes painted ground do double duty: dive into your team’s ink to move faster, refill, and climb walls, while enemy ink slows and hurts you. Seven weapons and three day-or-dusk stages give the quick-match format plenty of character.

It lists 22 origins and 156 grades, then punctures the shopfront illusion: no payments are taken and nothing is delivered. The joke is how thoroughly it commits to the cart, discounts and “family size” 2,000-barrel packs.

The page turns pet remembrance into a pitch for seasoning, keepsakes, and a “director’s cut” of the process. Its jokes are deliberate; what the process actually transforms into jerky is not explained in the supplied page.

The joke is built into the mechanics: five Glitches trigger a mock 30K disconnection, while a character promises an “Estimated release: yes.” It also offers browser saves that can be downloaded or moved to another device.

The quarters range from protecting turtle nests under amber beach lights to landing a reusable rocket stage. It turns the work of keeping a town running into a quietly odd assortment of little games.

ASHMARROW gives scarcity a cast of characters: a 12-year-old carries the seed, a route-reader trusts a partly wrong map, and a ration ledger tracks how many bad days each traveler can endure. A closed test is being prepared.

Captures become little set pieces: players choose a finisher, and each of eight clans brings its own attacks. Under the theatrics, the game also lays out five rule sets, from American checkers to International 10×10.

Its field guide gives the dragon-taming rules down to the numbers: each helper costs three monster meat, and injured dragons retreat to rest below 10% health.

It turns the NEET label and automated payroll into urban folklore: a missing worker becomes the thing holding a lost hour shut. The page’s clipped archive details—an apartment number, a future-messaging phone, a salary with no remembered job—make the premise feel specific rather than merely spooky.

The hook is wonderfully literal: hold up your palm, move it to position the paddle, and lean in to reach forward. It also lays out real table-tennis rules and offers computer, friend-link, and random-opponent play.

The site lays out the day as a small, carefully staged fantasy, including tea with another guest and staff taking photos so visitors can simply be present. It says the event meets on the first Saturday of each month, with dates announced on its official X account.

The page pairs a scrollable 7-tesla scan interface with a firing display and a feed for Robby’s AI “muse.” Its detailed claims—71 million neurons, 12,400 sections, 2.1 PB—make it a compelling, unverified specimen of synthetic-life storytelling.

The Bureau of Software Personnel gives the quiz a mock-official dossier treatment, then undercuts its own authority: it calls itself “unaccredited, unpaid, and deeply opinionated” and says the survey is for reflection and entertainment, not validated psychometrics. The six field exercises use real code and incidents, making the joke unusually specific to how developers work.

The puzzle has a gentle physical logic: matching pillows pop, the Snugs move cushion by cushion, and each safe rescue restores part of the sleeper’s lullaby. The page presents it as a short, no-account browser game.

The page builds its absurd premise like a lab record, complete with six named experiments and an “infinite fart loop.” It also clearly marks the telemetry as simulated and says market inputs are not configured or available.

The park doubles as a playground: its named areas include a timed driving circuit, a vehicle-powered bowling area, and a moving timeline landscape. The page also makes clear that score saving and visitor whispers are offline for now.

The paperwork makes the fiction do the onboarding: sheets pause before you can turn them, a four-question quiz checks your reading, and an overrepresented faction can be closed to keep the sides even.

The page turns a private disappearance story into a low-tech neighborhood signal hunt, with readers invited to document what they find. Whether the account is fiction or lived experience isn’t clear from the page, and that ambiguity is part of the unease.

PNN lays out a whole broadcast desk: five anchor personas, viewer-submitted topics, source credits, and a “Clip last 30s” control. The page says segments are generated shortly before airing; when captured, the player still said it was warming up.

The page borrows the language of party programs to talk about money, choice, and mutuality in relationships. Its campaign promise is to leave the heat pipes for heating—and let each “cat-wife” choose for herself.

The page turns the 1973 game Hunt the Wumpus into a specific political farce: every move costs 30 minutes, clues include Secret Service chatter and YMCA through the walls, and the target learns from being caught.

The tiny loop has a good physical rhythm: carry one gourd to an edge, deposit it, then catch the falling key to advance. Its creator clearly labels it an unofficial fan project and credits the original rights holders.

The mock storefront takes its premise all the way to cotton cardstock, wax seals, and “HR-reviewed wording” for excluding Kevin. It also makes clear that the testimonials are satire—and that nothing is for sale yet.

The catalogue lets you add a Bugatti Chiron listed at AED 14 million or a one-kilogram gold bar at AED 390,000, then check out without paying. Its punchline is part of the setup: the courier leaves the Gold Souk.

Visitors can’t steer the world: they drag or pinch to explore, click to read, and move through its ledger by year. That watch-only rule gives the project a clear, unusual premise.

The interface tracks 17 discoveries and invites visitors into a shared forest without sign-up. Ordinary chat is limited to nearby wanderers; typing !all sends a message to the whole forest.

The route has to reach three named stations before the reservoir, and there’s no clock pushing the player along. Its careful instructions and paper-city setting give a small water-routing game the feel of a place worth lingering in.

The hunt has a specific rhythm: lure campers with a stolen cry for help, then dodge the search party. In winter, hunters follow your footprints; a shared daily forest adds a leaderboard to the chase.

Friends can play the exact same course using a link or four-letter code, making the bragging rights part of the design. The course guide promises bumpers, ramps and a windmill, while the copy warns: “Nine holes. Zero mercy.”

The biggest fish becomes a moving billboard, but smaller fish can hunt its tail. Outfish also says branded sites bank lifetime mass that never decreases; the captured page reports the ocean offline, so live competition remains unconfirmed.

The site explains its battlefield in unusually concrete terms: build an eight-card deck, cross a valley, and bring down a fortress in two and a half minutes. Its roster includes a poet from Souk Okaz, a stone lion from Dadan, and a locust swarm from Jazan; an Android and Windows beta is advertised.

The interface goes well beyond a basic puck-and-goal demo: it details 5-v-5 play, shot aiming, replays, and a separate Zamboni mode. Even fights come with a rule: both sides must accept.

The page keeps the joke inside clear rails: its random-number button never charges anyone, while an agent prompt caps a voluntary tip at £5 including fees and requires a person to confirm wallet details.

The studio’s design rules include fair puzzles with no solutions hidden behind a single pixel. Its in-development game PID1 pairs a ternary computer with an engineer trying to revive a Soviet space station—and says players will write real programs.

The page makes the score trail part of the pitch: every run has a replay, and challenge links send a friend the same board and pieces. The replay is presented as evidence that a score came from the run shown.

Players enter with a message capped at 200 characters; the page says races aim for about 30 seconds, and only approved wins count. It even offers saved-proof checks and standings.

The page compresses dial-up-era desktop life into a boot sequence, buddy list, modem prompts, and even a Windows fatal-exception screen. It turns the familiar friction of getting online into the main attraction.

Its four proposed combat systems—volume, pressure, toxicity, and mucus—make the premise more than a one-line gag. The site also says plainly that movement, combat, and the first playable level are still ahead.

The console reaches well beyond placing servers: power, cooling, staff, contracts, finance, compliance, shipping and incidents all have their own controls. Choose forgiving plug-and-play mode, or Hacker mode with VLANs, routes, NAT, firewall rules and stricter consequences.

The dashboard lists 59 fused contacts, six marked anomalous, and a mean confidence of 57%—while its live panel reports zero residuals. That contrast makes the tracker worth inspecting, though the extracted page does not explain how its classifications or confidence scores are produced.

The page labels itself a parody, then gives its invented founder a ninth husband and a “Sub-Bass Sub-Dermal Realignment” method involving subwoofers, warm stones, and a signed waiver. The disclaimer keeps the joke legible.

The answer is grounded in a trail of French in-store price reports: the page credits Open Prices contributors and Open Food Facts, and explains that the reference price is a median. It turns that provenance into a game you can play alone or compare with friends.

COGWARDEN gives its world a memorable mechanical logic: five districts stack on interlocking wheels, and damage in one can ripple upward. The page marks the game as a closed preview and offers a waitlist; its trailer is still a placeholder.

The page gives the expedition a whole field-guide vocabulary: freeze a swarm with the cryo emitter, then shatter it with a seismic pulse. Even the objective—“Dig deep. Get out alive.”—has a clear, game-sized sense of peril.

The game’s public page gives its systems unusually concrete shape: ship rooms to upgrade, a fog-of-war galaxy to explore, and turn-by-turn duels where pilots choose attack and defense locations. It also plainly warns that the alpha can break and progress may reset.

The win condition is wonderfully specific: ask more questions and chat longer, but accept the baptism invitation and you lose the round. The page calls itself an unofficial prototype and says it is not affiliated with the church.

The sword can be thrown, left embedded in a boss or the floor, then recovered to regain health. Co-op changes the fight: one player uses the sword while the other throws daggers that deal double damage, and the page offers private rooms as well as quick matchmaking.

The rules are unusually concrete: a “bump” lasts half an hour, and a report preserves the relevant message even though ordinary conversation disappears. The page says the room opens October 9, 2026, so this is an early look at an empty room, not a populated one.

The instructions make the garden feel pleasantly tactile: scamper across surfaces, let go, then hold and aim a leap. It even offers separate keyboard, mouse, and gamepad controls.

The map turns a passing bit of visual oddity into a neighborhood record: its listed reports range from a cocktail-bar café and a gastrobar to Ajuntament de Viladecavalls. It’s a sharply focused way to track AI imagery escaping the screen and showing up in public.

It puts the familiar tabletop mix of map, dice, character stats, and Dungeon Master narration into one interface. The page is candid about the boundary: this is a scripted sample, not a live game, and the tactical view needs WebGL.

The comparison is framed as a classroom ledger: Miss Harlan gives each “pupil” the same cent, adds eight seconds for every cent kept back, and pins one weekly favorite. The page says no real money moves—but visible template tokens leave it unclear how much of the board currently renders.

The page frames each drive as a shared daily challenge: the same puzzle for everyone, refreshed at midnight. Its setup—a coordinator’s play script left in a diner—gives the play-calling a sly little mystery.

Instead of a feed, the page describes a path that stays dark until you reach it, with encounters where tunnels meet. The metaphor gives its proposed community a concrete shape; the homepage doesn’t establish how much of that experience is already working.

Its rules are built for turns rather than a ticking clock: even the stall count advances on turns. Add screen-reader support, a whole-field spoken board readout, and limited curved throws, and this is a carefully considered take on a very specific sport.

It turns a chat-fueled snack ritual into a browsable archive, complete with flavor filters and good-versus-gross tallies. The timeline even records the hiatus that ended when chat pooled 20 million channel points to bring the beans back.

The pitch is unusually literal: fly tiny whoops through a house, then build arenas and share them with friends. The FAQ says you can use a keyboard or gamepad—or plug in an FPV radio for the real stick feel.

The makers trace the game to Afghan family tables and name its variants—Fiskot, Fis Kut, Fis Kot, فیس کوت, and northern Peskot—alongside rules such as the shuffle law and bawand. They say their own table is now spread across three time zones, giving the app a concrete preservation story as well as a playable game.

It keeps more than champions and odds: five committees divide the work, and the page openly flags uncertain Sleeper-handle matches and a quotation still awaiting approval.

It has 37 of a stated 1,571 cars documented so far—and cautions that historical sightings don’t establish where a car is now, or whether it survives.

It turns urban wildlife-watching into a small game, then puts firm limits on the play: stay 50 feet away, never feed or follow, and keep to open paths. The mix of map, community nicknames, and live leaderboard makes the site a charmingly specific record of how people bring game mechanics to encounters with city wildlife.

This is a record book with a sense of humor and an unusually honest relationship with missing data. It counts 173 matches, marks 2012 as unknown and 2020 as cancelled, and refuses to invent match records for seasons it can’t fully document.

Its central wager is wonderfully legible: peek at a letter for three seconds, remember it, then decide whether to risk a guess. Miss, and the letters you identified become clues for the other players.

The invitation is strikingly low-pressure: one cantata, one hour, translations, and no music background required. The page also lets visitors hear Bach’s Prelude in C while notes light up—a small, apt flourish for a club devoted to music and its notation.

Dirtstorm MX makes that tradeoff its central mechanic: stunts build Hype, which can help turn a mid-pack finish into a career. The site says an early build is playable on Android and Windows, with access by request.

Its 1,440-shop count comes with an important brake: the page says it measures mapping activity, not where Malaysia actually buys electronics. It also spells out what its building and country counts leave out.

Its three jobs—carry, build, defend—make the 52-day premise a cooperative logistics problem, with raiders arriving in waves while builders work.

The daily challenge gives everyone the same five cards, then shares a spoiler-safe grid of their results. Its scoring rewards getting close to the listed market price, not simply guessing high-value cards.

SaucerJam makes the browser feel like a tiny arcade cabinet: the page promises play without a download or account, and explains mouse, keyboard, and two-thumb touch controls. Its detailed weapon rules suggest a game built around more than a quick novelty.

Recent entries include “Grocery Bakery Aisle” and “Backpack.” Its lead story treats rain on pavement as a smell event shaped by weather, surfaces, and nearby materials.

Its model asks whether a strike can reach a usable field and return, whether altitude cripples an armored division, and whether the defender owns a system rated to intercept the weapon. The site explicitly says outcomes are game mechanics, not forecasts.

Each answer points back to its YouTube moment; the page also sketches streaks, archives, and leaderboards, with a friend group among its sample communities.

The studio pairs a clearly defined client community with practical defenses against platform risk, including hosting, migrations, and age-gate and consent tools. Its sliding scale moves prices 40% below or above a regular rate, with the higher tier helping fund access pricing.

Green In Between makes the stroke itself the interface: two thumbs set the cue, contact point supplies spin, and thumb speed sets power—no aim line or power meter. The page is candid that its shots are renders, matches remain in design, and the beta form is not connected.

Its proposed handoff keeps the business anonymous while a mentee checks fit on trade, commute, savings and licensing; the owner controls when identifying details are revealed. Succession planning, with the reveal held behind an NDA.

The guide gets unusually operational: Friday’s 2.5-hour party bus, Saturday’s ATV outing, and a per-person estimate built around six paying guests sit alongside outfit themes and a “Bride Secrets—Shh!” section. It also notes that exact pickup and reservation times are still being confirmed.

The sales mechanism is unusually literal: send a candle, wait for the delivery alert, then open with “Did the candle arrive?” The page even says the gift may create a sense of obligation—a candid glimpse of the strategy behind the warmth.

The pitch gives fight stats a career-mode arc: climb the top 15, defend belts, and chase GOAT status, with fresh leaderboard rankings each month. It is explicitly unofficial—and guest play is offered without an account.

The pitch spans five board sports, spot-specific wind and swell, and shared lobbies of up to eight riders. The beta is invite-only, and the footage section still labels its trailer and several clips “coming soon.”

The homepage tracks the colony from one founder female to 291 verified active slings, with milestones and photographs presented as a running record.

Six house teams represent different market styles, from Value Harbor Foxes to Dividend Shortlag Lynx. There’s a real game premise here, though the page notes its public showcase hasn’t caught up with the live slate.

Its stated baselines blend Toby Ord (2020), the Forecasting Research Institute’s 2023 Existential Risk Persuasion Tournament, and Metaculus (2026). The page says daily news analysis can adjust scenarios within fixed bounds, labels the results non-predictive, and notes that summaries are AI-generated.

The proposed modules snap onto clothing and are meant to know where they sit, carrying a shared tactile language across apps, AI, games, and social products. The page offers a waitlist, not a demo or technical specification, so the protocol remains a proposal rather than a verified capability.

The map overlays an 1889 poverty map with fictional addresses, putting detective-story geography beside a contemporary record of the city. It turns literary detail into a way to explore how fiction and London’s real streets meet.

Students can assign lines different jobs—cut out, cut a hole, engrave, or pocket—then preview and download a .nc file. The page says drawings stay on the Chromebook and that a teacher runs every cut; it also cautions that the tool is not a safety system.

MeSee presents the photo library not as a grid to scan, but as a collection a user can listen to and ask questions about. Its homepage describes on-device search, spoken memories, and photo comparisons—a telling shift toward making personal media conversational, with privacy framed as part of the product.

Under the playful controls is a specific optical model: it samples 41 wavelengths and accounts for water dispersion and the Sun’s apparent size. The camera effect is manually placed, and the site is clear about what it cannot detect—an unusually useful boundary for a science toy.

REC captures the tracks and control movements—not the audio—and turns them into a link that replays the mix from YouTube.

Instead of relying on sunrise times for a flat horizon, Soulane says it calculates when sunlight clears the mountains around a location. Its Mont-Blanc example breaks the massif into 72 east–west profiles; the site also describes offline maps and route recording for use in the field.

Its map is backed by a hand-checked shop database, and the lineage view follows apprenticeship branches from a shop’s roots to the places that grew from it. The page also states the limits plainly: lineage is documented for about 17% of shops so far, and uncertain connections are left unclaimed.

ImportWindow warns that clearing emissions and tariff tests still may not make a car legal to import: the relevant date can depend on its month of manufacture. That’s a costly distinction, made concrete with model listings, eligibility dates, and links the site says point to government rules.

For Bournemouth, the site shows when the Sun does not reach the 17° and 18° twilight angles during part of late spring and summer. It distinguishes those calculated events from seasonal estimates, explains the equations and local-time conversion, and links to named astronomical references.

AnyChess pairs plain-language bot descriptions with real Stockfish chess, and adds shareable bots, house-rule challenges, and a ladder. It’s a concrete, playful use of AI: tell it what kind of opponent you want, then see if you can beat it.

Its sample lease analysis totals a five-year rent commitment at 5.1 million TL and calls out an early-exit clause that could leave the tenant owing the remaining rent. The method names its sources—and marks some measures unavailable rather than filling the gaps with guesses.

It connects the drawing on a vehicle quote to the parts on the shelf and the work order in a technician’s hands. One estimate can become dozens of separately assigned jobs, without retyping the details into an invoice.

The site says it gathers listings from 833 towns’ akiya banks. One ¥2.8M Tsuruoka house is flagged for building restrictions, pre-1981 earthquake standards, and a stigmatized-property disclosure, with estimated purchase costs of ¥2.88M–¥3.44M.

ArcherLab turns a phone camera into a practice-side coach, linking video review with scored rounds. It is also unusually clear about the limits: score matching is heuristic, and its side-view measurements are not a full biomechanics assessment.

The darkroom demo says it processes pixels in your browser, and its histogram, waveform, and vectorscope update with the image. The rest of the page commits to the bit too: Flash warnings, dial-up simulations, and a Geocities-honor subscription pledge.

In its Michigan example, a $3.48 shelf price and $3.98 charge become a $5.50 claim: the difference plus a cited $5 bonus. The site also offers package-weight checks tied to NIST Handbook 133.

The page draws a clear line between preparation and coaching: “your worst real day, in your own words,” not a script for a rating. It also says one veteran is paying hosting and AI costs from a disability check, with donations optional.

Opora makes its coping tools unusually concrete: choose a first step under two minutes at night, and the next morning’s notification opens the timer with that task loaded. Its cast of procrastinating weirdos supplies the jokes without making missed days a failure.

The friction is literal: successive walks unlock less time—10 minutes, then 5, 3 and 2. A raccoon named Nox keeps watch, while the page says calls, texts and alarms stay available.

The homepage says answers cite exact clauses, state confidence, and decline questions the indexed corpus cannot answer. That traceable, explicit boundary is a meaningful design choice for a tool dealing in standards and certificates.

The page says conversion runs locally using the open-source libmspub reader compiled to WebAssembly, and invites visitors to verify that their files are not sent over the network. It also spells out the tradeoffs: older Publisher files are unsupported, and some text wrapping or WordArt effects may differ.

RewindMap turns a familiar map into a timeline: move by year, adjust the speed, and switch among layers backed by named historical and scientific sources. It makes the scale of recorded events—1,644 polities, 49,271 battles and conflict events—something to explore rather than just read about.

It can search ClinicalTrials.gov live, while Chinese registries still require manual checking. The site carefully separates a real registration record from proof of safety or an inviter’s legitimacy—and keeps its warning checklist on the page rather than uploading it.

The cards make room for both Aarambh and Bhog—the beginning and completion of the reading—and the instructions explain why both dates matter. A small, focused tool with unusually thoughtful cultural and language details.

Travelers can add up to 12 legs and receive alerts when conditions change. The page carefully limits what those alerts mean: Batosathi never gives a road the all-clear, and its sample itinerary is labeled as example data, not a live trip.

It turns library calendars and park data into a practical weekly guide, with filters for a child’s age, nap schedule, time of day and language. The page says it covers 342 sessions from 17 library systems, while clearly noting that some city-run libraries are still missing.

Its advice is tied to the beekeeper’s own location and records, not just a generic month-by-month calendar. The maker’s account of inheriting bees with his father—and struggling to keep jobs, dates, and weather straight—gives the tool a clear, practical origin.

Bangladesh swells to about 21 times its true size; Australia shrinks to about a seventeenth. The map also lets users try their own numbers.

It lets makers preview a design in 3D and check a dimensioned drawing before printing—without installing CAD software or creating an account. The site also spells out a useful limitation: its current Gridfinity trays have no stacking rim or magnet holes.

Game, Discord and microphone audio stay apart, so you can turn down a loud friend after the match—without editing a flattened recording.

Its homepage describes a careful chain of custody: OCR runs locally, each extracted value is shown beside its source in the notice, and nothing enters a letter until the user confirms it. The site says it uses fixed templates, not AI-written letters.

For Suncor v. Boulder County, Docketodds distinguishes the model’s estimate that the judgment changes from the legal arguments themselves, then shows simulated odds for either outcome. It says the starting balance is virtual and offers no real money or prizes.

The archive lists 83 titles and lets visitors guess whether a character dies before revealing the answer. A very specific question gets a surprisingly thoughtful spoiler-control interface.

The page describes a focused path from a quick pain log or uploaded report to a consultation-ready summary, with versions for different kinds of clinicians. It also specifies that its emotional support is not therapy, and says the app is being offered to early testers.

The tools get pleasingly specific: one calculator corrects hydrometer readings to 60°F, another estimates syrup yield, and the beginner guide explains why tapping too early can cost late-season runs.

The site claims coverage of 16 state hunting-unit layers and depth data for 432 lakes, alongside offline maps and an AI guide that drops map pins. Its recorded examples are explicitly sped up, and it tells users to confirm land status and regulations with North Dakota Game & Fish.

The page pairs hoverable desktop demos with unusually specific performance measurements, including 80 menu samples and 360 dock frames. It also documents rollback commands—and notes that the benchmarks come from one machine, so yours may differ.

Its workflow connects file-based quoting to machine assignment, printer monitoring, invoicing and post-job cost correction. The page names support for OctoPrint, Bambu Lab, Klipper and other printer systems, and says the app can run entirely offline.

The forms make room for parental and maternal relatives, as well as Valley and Jammu addresses—details a generic form would likely flatten. The site says entries stay in the browser; ritual-date and family tools are presented as coming soon.

The page lays out a specific household workflow: it proposes matching people across email addresses, but requires your approval before creating or merging anyone. Its answers are meant to cite the notes they came from, and the site says AI is called only when you ask a question.

It puts practical controls—mask all, draw a box, or select text—between a document and the chat box. The page says edited pages are flattened for export while untouched pages stay searchable, a useful distinction for anyone handling a mixed document.

It accounts for a pharmacy’s return window for soon-to-expire stock, and keeps each lot’s printed price—important when one brand’s price changes by lot. The details feel drawn from the counter, not a generic retail checklist.

Describe a problem in English, Nepali, or Nepali written in Roman letters; the site says it matches you with lawyers and leaves the choice to you. Alongside that service are practical tools for Bikram Sambat dates, filing deadlines, fees, and Nepali text conversion.

It pairs a MIR21 positive control with an unannotated genomic negative control, then separates that demonstration from its held-out benchmark. The page also warns that a hairpin score does not establish expression, processing, targets, function, or disease relevance.

Orbifera makes the experiment concrete: fork the same live field, adjust the two environments, then save or export a snapshot. It also draws a clear line around the claims: its seeds are not verified organisms, and the planned shared provenance layer is not connected.

Before each exercise, it proposes a specific next move—add weight, add a rep, hold steady, or deload—and puts the target in the set row. Its watch workflow is built for the phone staying in the bag, with offline logging and a haptic rest timer.

Instead of comparing GPU-hour prices alone, PetaPrice ranks offers by dollars per petaFLOP-hour and lets readers switch among precision measures such as FP16/BF16, FP8, and FP32. Its table spans familiar data-center cards and consumer GPUs, including a listed RTX 4070 SUPER offer at $0.07 per GPU-hour.

Its example pairs C$120k in Canadian income with Emerald II in League of Legends: both land around the 92nd percentile, though the page notes the populations aren’t directly comparable.

Roomstill makes structural fidelity its central constraint: the page says walls, windows, doors, ceiling height, and framing stay put while furniture and decor change. It also offers the two files it says property portals require—the original and an AI-labeled render.

Sabo Typist makes restraint its central feature: no predictions, corrections, or sentence completions. Its formatter handles details such as double spacing, margins, running heads, and footnotes, then exports a Word file or PDF.

Its audio follower compares a live feed with the score in four simultaneous modes, but the site keeps a human score-reader in control—especially for open jazz solos and long pauses.

Visitors can move through dates from 1800 to 2100, adjust the pace of time, and jump to listed events. The page also offers experiments on day and night, changing a planet’s speed, and light bending near a black hole.

It turns a volunteer scorekeeper’s judgment calls into a short practice session, not another app for recording games. The site says it gives partial credit for calls that are right in result but wrong in fielder sequence, and sets arguable plays aside rather than counting them against your streak.

Its “beach, no people” search makes exclusions a first-class feature, then explains what matched and why. The site reports better results for negative queries in a small, clearly qualified benchmark: 0.81 precision versus 0.39 for plain image-text matching.

Its page treats accessibility and failure states as core design: the tuner is meant to stop rather than guess when the signal is unreliable, and the site lays out a ±1-cent accuracy claim with its measurement protocol. Android and iOS are still marked “coming soon,” so this is a detailed preview, not evidence of a released app.

Its rule for ranking kills is unusually strict: another player on another computer must record the same death. Witness-only and claimed kills stay visible, but never make the ranked board.

The page says 49,356 of 75,936 takeaways have a 5/5 rating, including 15,909 with many 1–2-star ratings. Its “Rating gap” measure compares the star rating converted to 100 points with the site’s Eat Score, making hidden disagreement easy to inspect.

The calendar connects local frost estimates to planting and harvest tasks, then lets gardeners add dates to a phone calendar or print the year. A bed planner also previews plant counts and timing by square.

The handoff is unusually complete: one link can handle listening, version comparisons, feedback, and payment before the files unlock. The page even separates card payments, which it says go to the creator’s Stripe account, from PayPal payments that need a manual “marked as paid” switch.

Its workflow reaches beyond a demo canvas: users can arrange props in 3D, save reusable groups, import custom models, and connect a BakeMe props folder for match-specific editing.

Siembro describes a practical bridge from a drawn field boundary to planting coordinates, with exports for tools such as AutoCAD, QGIS, GPS devices and Excel. Its degree-by-degree row-orientation optimizer and stated offline field mode make this more than a generic mapping pitch.

The tables link figures to manufacturer datasheets and owner’s manuals, and say when they were checked. It also flags a swallowed battery as an emergency, with US poison-control contacts prominently displayed.

The project covers cards from Black & White through Mega Evolution, with tools for AI-vs-AI matches and batch simulations alongside ordinary play. It also spells out the prototype’s gameplay rules—and says it is unaffiliated with The Pokémon Company.

Search can match exact wording or similar descriptions, then point viewers toward the moment it happens. The homepage says the archive covers 1,474 episodes and 3,752 hours, with episode chapters and speaker summaries alongside its search.

The useful distinction is in the data path: users bring their files, and the page says analysis and storage stay in the browser. It names the exceptions—optional location and weather lookups—and the trade-offs, including no sync and no .tcx support.

Anchovy records both your microphone and computer audio, but never silently: when a meeting app starts, it asks whether to record. Notes stay local, in files you can open with Obsidian or any Markdown reader.

Class pages place each beta change beside its Classic counterpart; a Legacy calculator is built around 16 points, three trees, and 65 challenges.

The homepage names its sources and marks stock data as delayed when appropriate, rather than treating every number as self-explanatory. It also pairs practical feeds with three deliberately retro looks: LED matrix, iTunes LCD, and Mac OS 9 Control Strip.

The homepage lays out a full path from assumptions to portfolio valuation, with formula-filled Excel exports for review. It says calculations run on the user’s device and policy data is not sent to a server—a concrete design choice for a tool handling sensitive insurance data.

Instead of stopping at city or ZIP-code averages, Bar Comps lets users draw a circle around a trade area and compare venues inside it. The figures come from Texas Comptroller filings, with the site noting that they are not audited by Bar Comps.

The site makes a useful counterpoint to success-only trading pitches: its homepage says failed results stay on the board. Its scoreboard reports that seven of nine tested strategies did not beat holding, and it explains the validation conditions it says it uses.

BoxLoop connects box inventory, order packing, and seller-entered shipping tariffs in one specific workflow. It also makes its limits clear: estimates are not live carrier quotes, and the parcel should be checked before stock changes.

The page gives the forecast its own art direction: 96 painted scenes, three narrator voices, and two complete visual “presses,” from saturated Ben-Day dots to amber-lit noir. It is marked coming soon to the App Store, so this is a detailed preview rather than an app readers can download now.

It makes the plumbing visible: the page describes Bitget order-book depth of up to 50 levels per side and Lighter depth of up to 100 orders, while noting that Architect’s authenticated book is not connected. It also warns that differences in benchmarks, maturities, and currencies are not arbitrage signals.

The archive labels research by version, distinguishes official 1.0 information from legacy player tests, and points readers to original sources and patch checks.

The neat trick is that the generated video arrives in pieces: trim a scene, mute a whoosh, or move the titles, then export up to 4K. EasyCut says projects and editing stay in your browser, with no account or upload.

It treats collectible buying as a cross-border price problem, putting Polish, EU and non-EU offers alongside preorder deposits and restock returns. Its deal benchmark uses a 90-day median of final prices, not just a retailer’s crossed-out sticker.

FIXIT accepts a transformation only if it reproduces the supplied result exactly; when an example is ambiguous, it asks rather than silently guessing. Its stated scope is specific, and the site offers Windows and Linux downloads alongside an engineering SDK.

Press ⌃⇧⌘U to upload clipboard contents from any app; Aktar says your keys stay in macOS Keychain while files go to your own bucket.

Its promise is unusually concrete: six questions, then a plan that says what to do first—and what to cross off, with reasons. The site says it costs nothing and is general information, not financial, legal, or tax advice.

Kalkuva accepts ingredients in kitchen language and says it can read pasted or photographed price lists, then calculate dish costs. Its chef-built cost sheet is designed for keyboard use, and the site also offers 276 sourced yield figures.

Lexistmo says its collection includes 12,365 Supreme Court decisions, 16,684 laws and other legislation, and records from procurement bodies and lower courts. Its central promise is traceability: answers cite the underlying resolution or law, while each statute is labeled for its current validity.

Its culling view scores each frame’s sharpness and suggests a keeper, but leaves the choice to you. Linux is available now; the Apple versions are still in beta, pending Apple review.

OpenGTB makes a convincing case for the small, specialized tools people need in technical fieldwork: its tools run locally without an account, while its journal jokes about systems that must work “even when the Internet takes a nap.”

The report turns a name or ISBN search into a downloadable CSV and a stamped PDF, with source-file checksums and written limits on what a match proves. Reports cost $95 or $125, depending on whether they include full registration status records.

The page makes a clear case against the required cloud accounts that often come with cameras—and backs it with specifics, from media-output health checks to a security audit that says what it did not review. It reflects a broader appetite for keeping everyday infrastructure on hardware people control.

The guide lists 15 courses across four destinations and says blue-tee lengths are published only where verified. Its booking brief is explicit about its limits: preferences are not live tee-time availability, and nothing is sent until the visitor chooses to send an enquiry.

Its “Print Test Seam” mode prints two neighboring sheets first, so you can check their overlap before committing to the whole poster.

The format list ranges from strength sets and boxing rounds to climbing hangboard repeaters. Coaches can assemble plans in a browser and share them by QR code, while watch support and training-service sync sit behind a one-time Pro purchase.

The map pairs height and structure-type filters with source checks and unusually candid coverage caveats. It also lets visitors leave public comments on individual structures, while warning them not to approach or climb them.

The page gets unusually literal about the watch: Up and Down move, Select checks an item, and Back can undo a just-spoken list. Its Porto-with-a-baby example turns a trip description into 16 items, from passports to tram tickets.

The page shows diagnostics for an undeclared flag, an out-of-range variable, and a character speaking after being marked dead on that story path. teitha says its checks are deterministic and run as you type—a concrete answer to continuity drift across long or branching fiction.

The page says 438,373 allotment and seat rows were checked against MCC PDFs, while 81 of 84 independent checks pass. That unusually explicit audit trail gives candidates something concrete to inspect—and leaves the exceptions visible.

It makes the stakes concrete: in its example, an agent passes 10 of 12 tasks but weakens an authorization check, so the guide says not to ship. The page also warns against letting reassuring averages hide consequential failures.

The homepage lays out a specific workflow: upload a photo, PDF, pasted chart or chord-page link, then edit and transpose. Its Hebrew right-to-left layout and live sessions—where each player can set a personal capo without changing the band’s key—make it more than a generic songbook.

It turns an accessibility request into a clearly bounded job: 50 criterion-level remarks, prioritized fixes, a draft accessibility statement, and one retest for $1,490. The sample report names concrete issues, including a 3.1:1 contrast ratio and a control that works only by dragging.

Its described workflow accounts for weak connectivity: farmers can save a leaf photo and send it when service returns. The page says treatment doses require agronomist approval and market prices are checked with multiple local sources; the app is marked as coming soon on Google Play.

A ZIP-code lookup leads to a building-specific view, with deadlines, calendar and CMMS exports, and an acknowledgment record for members. The page distinguishes verified state adoption dates from projected code cycles—and cautions that local rules may be stricter.

Its guidance gets practical about bad footage: a larger person crossing near the camera can be mistaken for the jumper, and clothing that blends into the background can obscure the body. The site also spells out its data limits: original videos are deleted after about 24 hours and results after about 30 days.

The pitch is unusually inspectable: the page prices a sample 22-second reel at $0.40 and lays out a one-hour-podcast-to-100-reels workflow, including a price estimate before rendering.

The page shows a washer serial number decoded to a February 2016 build date, then lays out the sources and limits behind its estimates. It also offers brand-by-brand label-finding guides and a public correction log.

Its pitch comes with unusually specific numbers: the site says reception loads in 0.3 seconds with 169,000 records and that it imported 169,401 records in 85 seconds. Those are company-reported figures, but they make the product’s speed-and-migration argument unusually concrete.

The workflow is unusually concrete: inspect a style in a 60-second demo, or use a four-day trial or €20 licence for editing and export. It even spells out the catch: demo styles aren’t included, so bring your own.

The catalog names 38 tools, from an 8-band equalizer to stem splitting and a hummed-melody-to-MIDI tool. Audio Lab says processing happens on your device and nothing is uploaded—a concrete privacy claim at the center of the product.

Its demo is a silent scene from an invented show: click a subtitle word to save its sentence, then review it without furigana before revealing the reading and meaning.

This is more than a prompt box: the grid and Strudel code each shape playback, with controls for song sections, samples, mixing, and recording. The page also shows WAV, MIDI, and code export options.

SiteBrief turns the often informal pre-quote visit into a documented handoff: ten guided photo prompts, sourced measurements, access notes and a PDF. Its clearest design choice may be what it refuses to claim: the brief is not a scaffold design or safety certificate.

The results name their formulas and limits. A worked example runs the same person through three body-fat methods—and shows where they disagree.

The maker says the scorekeeping app has been running since 2013. Its four characters have distinct jobs, manga, and theme songs—including a numbers-obsessed checker who insists she is 150 cm tall.

Alongside sample beats, it offers eight original patterns with names like “Fireballs - Wednesday Nights” and “Nightbus.” Controls for swing, grit, wobble and chaining give the page more character than a bare-bones beat pad.

Its sample AD exchange has a useful boundary: Bruv quotes 14 CFR § 39.3 and opens the cited page, but says it does not carry the AD list. The mechanic still has to check the aircraft-specific details and make the call.

Its sample morning log makes the guardrail legible: six of six lines match by article number, while a request with three of five unmatched lines is held back for human review.

Its workflow is unusually concrete: click a dimension, check or adjust the detected value and tolerances, then export a ballooned PDF and Excel inspection files. The homepage’s demo contrasts a four-hour preparation estimate with a ten-minute one.

The tools target specific surveying chores, from fetching a Greek cadastral parcel by its 12-digit ID to exporting selected parcels as a Google Earth KML. The page says each runs on the active drawing through its own graphical interface—no command line required.

The homepage names the recordkeeping rules it follows: hours and minutes, four-letter ICAO aerodrome codes, and function time that cannot exceed block time. It also describes PDF and CSV exports, making the record format part of the product rather than an afterthought.

CalcX launches from the calculator’s APPS menu and is presented as surviving RAM clears. The page distinguishes its evidence: boot footage is recorded from the actual program, while game screenshots were captured in an emulator.

Calistica makes progress depend on a test every 14 days: meet the written standard and advance; miss it and the app sets a practice dose for the next four weeks. The site’s interactive placement rule works in the browser, but the app itself is not yet shipped.

The site says it studied 1,419 complaint posts from Reddit, Trustpilot, G2 and Capterra, then built a button for each frustration. That unusually concrete origin story comes with a caveat: several displayed percentages do not match their accompanying counts.

Its rarity tiers are described as based on how many of each car exist, not on price or random rewards. The site also provides a way to flag mistaken identifications and says it does not read or store number plates, faces, or owner details.

Its example puts a free-product offer to a 136,000-follower creator beside a $3,600–$5,300 estimate, while flagging usage rights with no duration as a term to clarify. The site calls its numbers a starting point, not a quote: this is a counter-script for creator negotiations, not a valuation authority.

The page lays out how its model blends historical entry ratios with robust regression, drawing on a stated 192,000 CCA records. Tournament directors can also compare events, override inputs, and prepare forecast-update emails.

The tool explains how it derives counts from beats and gives users ways to correct a misplaced beat one, adjust tempo, or change the time signature. That makes a specific rehearsal workflow—and its possible failure points—visible rather than hiding them behind a generic upload button.

It goes beyond drawing a tool path: the site describes a simulator that parses real G/M code and connects the run to tool-load monitoring and chip behavior. The core is presented as free after the three-day full-access trial.

Its collection workflow is unusually attentive to the realities it describes: large buttons, voice input, offline use, and help with unpaid bills. The proposed record includes dates, prices, and sent messages; the page says Cobrita is not yet ready and invites visitors to sign up for launch updates.

The page says it stores only the current location, not a location history, and plainly warns that anyone with the link can view it. That pairing of a time limit with a clear access caveat makes the tool’s privacy tradeoffs unusually easy to inspect.

The chart covers 27 NCBI genetic codes and can inspect ambiguous IUPAC triplets as well as standard codons. Its sequence notes also make a useful distinction: changing RNA letters to DNA replaces U with T; it does not complement a strand.

Prices share a per-250g baseline, and the page says stock is checked every three hours. That turns a crowded specialty-coffee shelf into something you can actually compare.

Its rule is unusually clear: it never clicks Accept, and leaves pay-or-accept walls to the user. The site reports testing it on 10,313 European websites, where it refused 80% of the banners it encountered and flagged 11% as not yet handled.

The homepage doesn’t flatten contested ancestry into a single answer: Sour Diesel is listed with 11 disputed lineage edges, while several strains reach 12 generations back.

Dare Roll trades the usual social-photo machinery for one daily assignment: find an accidental face, photograph the wind, or follow another of its 348 dares. The page even lets visitors try a prompt before downloading.

Instead of publishing a “top 10,” it compares plan-level fees, minimum contracts, and booking or call-transfer support using a stated common standard. It says unknowns stay marked as unconfirmed, and advertising does not affect the order.

Its cleanup list separates rebuildable caches from files worth inspecting; selected items go to the Trash, where they can be recovered.

Paste in a public URL or a localhost address and the page says it checks the site across 123 device sizes. Its blunt FITS, TIGHT, and SPILLING stickers make a familiar responsive-design chore easy to read at a glance.

Donna Kowalski says she spent 41 years on a Chicago apartment-maintenance crew. The page puts five sample service-call estimates beside parts-only costs, while noting that prices vary and some jobs belong to professionals.

The report treats each replay as evidence: it flags costly moments with timestamps and compares role-specific performance with pros. The page says analysis runs in your browser, so the replay is not uploaded to a server.

The canvas gives drawing a clear musical grammar: left to right is time, up and down is pitch, and scale settings keep notes in tune. You can play without signing up; free use includes up to three WAV exports a day, while MIDI export requires Pro.

It turns a fussy print-preparation sequence into three named steps, including a white spot channel called “Spot_1.” The page says it was built in a DTF workshop in La Réunion and offers the modules separately, with no subscription.

It treats streaming to nobody as a skill you can rehearse, not just an awkward gap to endure. The site says the app runs on your PC; its illustrated demo is candidly labeled as using pre-written replies.

The ten-question check promises to show applicable roles, costs, and the legal articles behind them—without an account or a sales call. The site also describes screening company documents and refusing some applications, a concrete constraint that makes this more than a generic compliance pitch.

Each puzzle has its own clear mechanic, from a 90-second ten-answer round to a 3×3 country-and-position grid. One small scoreboard mystery: the page promises nine games but names ten.

On its own Mac, Farcursor found ten Jump Desktop sessions that connected to a black screen while RustDesk showed the desktop every time. The page even reports a local threshold: 12 or more networks in view correlated with black screens; nine or fewer worked.

The page connects soil and weather readings to specific next steps, with offline task cards and inventory measured in liters and kilograms. Its sample farm conversation is explicitly labeled simulated, while the site says it is piloting with select estates in Kandy and Anuradhapura.

Mailer turns conversations into cases labeled with states such as “Waiting on you” and “Waiting on them.” It also says extracted deadlines retain their source sentence, and suggested replies are never sent without approval.

Its leak-catchers turn common slips into visible records: park a purchase for 24 hours to a week, get return and trial countdowns, and flag bills before payday. The homepage also offers a demo without an account, so readers can inspect the workflow before buying.

The free, no-email materials calculator spans half-foot increments from 4 to 20 feet. The paid plan adds board-by-board cutting guidance and 16 build steps shown in 3D.

Its described workflow is unusually concrete: upload a listing or brochure plan, optionally enter the listed floor area to set scale, then inspect the furnished result before paying. The page says plans are read in-browser and kept only if you buy the flat.

Its AI is cast as a screening aid, not an all-knowing packaging chooser: the page says model predictions are labelled and never override sourced values. That restraint, alongside clear limits on what the scores mean, is a useful counterpoint to the usual AI promise of effortless certainty.

The conversion runs locally in the browser, and the page documents the awkward edges: unsupported MobileSheets bundles, bookmark handling, and titles containing illegal characters.

The page makes its evidence and limits visible: presets draw on published specifications and labeled estimates, while measurement methods differ. It also explains how its 180° by 112° angular stage represents headset outlines, so readers can see what the comparison does—and does not—claim.