SOMA

Maybe I'll go where I can see stars, he said to himself as the car gained velocity and altitude; it headed away from San Francisco, toward the uninhabited desolation to the north. To the place where no living thing would go. Not unless it felt that the end had come.

I walk downtown on Howard. There are fewer homeless than on Market, but it’s still pretty grim. Cheap tents, cardboard shelters, lumps of humanity rolled in grotty blankets.

I meet Björn outside the Bleacher Report office. We’re too early - the security guard hasn’t arrived yet.

When we get inside, the space is at the other side of the company bar. Self serve taps of IPA and Sangria gleam temptingly, but we walk on by into a spacious workshop room.

There’s been a logistics cockup. Some people arrive for 9, others for 9:30. We cope. The day unfolds as so many have before, punctuated by coffee and a burrito bowl lunch.

Then it’s pizza, beer and a software crafts meetup. Sixty signed up, sixteen show up. And it’s over. I walk back down Howard, chat with mine host ( who had her carpal tunnel cleared out today) and retire.

Two more days.