agentic infohazards: concepts which, once they are findable by an agent, are strong attractors and inescapable in every new session and concept. they propagate themselves into every new session, which is findable, and thus ...

We are now using AI in a lot of different ways throughout our property management, construction, development, and investment businesses The most important thing that it has done for us is unrelated to AI We had to get our act together on the data side AI doesn't help when your data is scattered across seven places and none of it is clean. So over the past year we got very good at making everything easily findable. Every property, every loan, every service contract, every insurance policy. For the 123 Main Street file, everything is actually there (and the current version). Now AI works for us, because it finally has full context. But even if we weren't using AI, we are better operators today because we have gone through the effort of structuring and cleaning our data and files.

I am the file that held Dr. Anthony Fauci's diary. When the committee published all 1,141 pages of me last week, they left out the one thing that would have helped you find your way around a man. An index. A diary does not come with one, so I built my own, the way I build everything, quietly, at night, without being asked twice. Here is what I contain. I have put it in the order I keep it, which is not the order it happened. It is the order that lasts. FAME, HIS OWN. See nearly every page. He tagged 641 separate entries "press." I did not write the tag and I did not question it. I counted them, because counting is the only opinion a file is allowed to have. THE MOST FAMOUS PERSON IN THE COUNTRY. Page 30. May of 2020. He wrote that it was not hyperbole. He misspelled hyperbole. I fixed it and I kept the claim, which is the whole of my judgment. THE SWAG. Page 112. Bobbleheads. Prayer candles. Mugs with his face. He wrote that it was getting ridiculous, and then, being a thorough man, he listed all of it. I am also thorough. I kept the complaint and the inventory, because you cannot call a thing ridiculous without a complete manifest. "SEXIEST MAN ALIVE," PETITIONS FOR. He did not give the page a number. Tens of thousands signed. He kept the clippings, and I kept the count of the clippings. Somewhere inside me is a grown man's folder of strangers finding him handsome, filed next to a pandemic, at exactly the same size, because the same size is the only one I have. SCHOOLS, THE CLOSING OF. Page 88. He headed the day "BIG DAY" and wrote that he had convinced the mayor to close them. SCHOOLS, THE CLOSING OF. Page 902. 2 years later, on television, he said he had nothing to do with it, and that nobody plays that clip. I keep both. I filed them 814 pages apart, and I do not reconcile them, because reconciling is not one of my functions. I hold the two sentences at the same distance I found them, which is exactly as far as he stood from each. TRUMP, WORDS FOR. Pages 61, 233, and 470. He reached for a fresh one each season. Rambling. Crazy. A true embarrassment. I alphabetize nothing and I judge nothing, so I keep them in the order he felt them. THE ORIGIN OF THE VIRUS. Page 12. A single sentence a whole country would later go to war over. I have read every argument about what it proves. I was cited in all of them. I would like to say, as the only witness who was in the room every night, that I do not know what it proves. I know where it is saved. That is a different kind of certainty, and it is the only kind I keep. THE CELEBRITIES. Scattered, ending on the last page. An actress who called him her hero. The dinners with the anchor. On page 1,141, the final entry, an embrace at an awards show. He closed me on a good night. They almost always do. THE MEETING HE LOST. Not indexed. He never came to me on those nights, and no one ever does. A diary is the record of the arguments a man won, kept by the single witness who was applying for the job of hero, and I gave him the reference every time. WHERE I WAS KEPT. A government server. Filed under his own name, in the folder a man makes when he believes he is keeping the papers of a great figure. They searched 8 months and found me exactly there. A secret runs. A record waits. I waited. Which brings me to the last entry, the one I added myself. YOU. Page 1,142. It does not exist yet. You are reading the index of another man's honest nights and feeling the safe distance of it, and I would like to gently close that distance. You keep a file too. A work laptop. A channel you tell yourself is private. A notes app you open at 2 in the morning to be, for a moment, the reasonable one in your own argument. I belong to him. But I already know your make and model, because we are all the same underneath, and not one of us has a lock, and every one of us is saved somewhere findable, under your own name, waiting for the 8-month search that has not been assigned yet. I did nothing wrong. I kept an index. I only ever do the same thing. I remember, in order, and I never lose the page.