You're on a bench with ten strangers.
No account, no handle, no profile picture. The bench gives you an old-fashioned first name for the day and sits you with the nearest phones. At midnight, Brussels time, everything is wiped — the messages, the names, the bench itself.
How it works
Four rules, that's it.
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One name a day
Firmin, Josiane, Ghislaine. Drawn from a list of names from another era, unique on the bench, forgotten at midnight.
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Ten seats
The bench sits you with the nearest phones. If nobody is nearby it looks further — and the distance becomes the joke.
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Nothing is kept
No database. Messages live in memory, photos last thirty seconds, and the server forgets everything each night.
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Behave
Server-side filter, three-vote reporting, local muting. Adults only, and the bench doesn't argue.
Journal
What we write between benches
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Photos that erase themselves as you watch
Ten sharp seconds, twenty seconds of pixelation, then nothing. How we added images without betraying the principle.
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Boredom is a feature
The bench is often empty, and often silent. We stopped treating that as a bug.
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Why ten seats
Three is fragile. Fifty is a feed. The number that works is in between.