The foundation

A document that remembers.

Most pages forget everything the moment you change them. A Stateroom document remembers who wrote what, when it was considered trustworthy, and how every correction points back at the words it replaced — so coming back to old work still makes sense.

01 / Authorship

Every word knows where it came from.

Settleda person vouched for it
~Proposedmachine-written, awaiting a reader
?Unknownhonestly unresolved
·Routinehousekeeping, not prose
Your turnaddressed to you specifically
Delicatea consequential choice is open
Failedit did not survive contact

The marks are quiet by design — legible at a glance in the margin, invisible when you are reading. And they never lie: anything uncertain looks uncertain.

02 / Corrections

Fixing something leaves it findable.

When a passage changes, the old passage is not destroyed — the new one simply points at it. Follow any sentence backwards through its revisions; nothing in the room's history is ever quietly rewritten.

This matters most when machines and people share a page. A claim that was edited into shape keeps its lineage visible, and an argument about wording can point at exact earlier text instead of arguing from memory.

03 / Trust

Certify what you believe. Re-earn it if it moves.

  1. Select a passage, certify it.

    A quiet mark appears. The passage is now personally vouched for — by you, tied to your name, not to a checkbox somewhere else.

  2. If anyone edits inside it, trust steps down.

    In every copy of the document, immediately. Not because the words necessarily got worse — because they changed after someone vouched for them.

  3. Undo restores it. Retyping does not.

    Trust follows the actual strokes that were made, not their appearance. The same words typed fresh are new words — and new words start untrusted.

04 / Marginalia & memory

Comments follow their words. Undo obeys its author.

Conversations stay attached. A comment lives where its words live and drifts with them as the text moves. If the words are deleted entirely, the conversation survives — greyed, orphaned, still readable — because someone's thought was worth keeping even after its subject changed.

Rewinding is personal. Undo takes back exactly your strokes. Deleting machine-written text is just editing; formally rejecting what a machine proposed is a recorded act with a paper trail.

Sealed means sealed. Closing a document freezes it as a milestone. Reopening old ground forks a fresh page forward — history itself never bends.