Jia Xinn

There’s a phase in crypto that doesn’t get enough attention. It’s not the hype phase and it’s not the crisis phase. It’s the stretch in between, where everything technically works, but something feels slightly off. No alerts. No losses. Just a faint sense that people are starting to interpret things differently.

That’s the phase I think about when I think about Apro.

Most systems don’t care about that space. They’re built to perform when attention is high or react when something breaks. But that in-between phase — where assumptions drift quietly is where most real damage actually begins.
I didn’t notice this early on. Back then, everything was new enough that disagreement felt obvious. People argued loudly. Lines were clear. Over time, as systems matured and stacked on top of each other, disagreements became quieter. More polite. More implicit.

And that’s where things got dangerous

I’ve watched situations where everyone thought they were aligned, not because they had talked it through, but because nothing had forced them to talk. Everything kept working, so no one questioned their interpretation. By the time something changed, the surprise wasn’t technical it was emotional.

“That’s not what I thought this was.”
Apro feels like it was built for that exact moment — the moment before disappointment turns into conflict.

What stands out to me is that Apro doesn’t wait for failure to justify itself. It doesn’t show up after something breaks and explain what went wrong. It exists earlier, in that uncomfortable stage where asking questions feels unnecessary and even slightly annoying.

That’s a hard place to design for, because people don’t feel the problem yet.
I think that’s why Apro doesn’t try to be loud. Loud systems show up when people are already paying attention. Apro feels like it’s meant to be present when people aren’t. When assumptions are forming silently. When behavior starts diverging subtly across teams and integrations

Most systems treat silence as a good sign. Apro treats silence as a risk.
Another thing that resonates with me is how Apro doesn’t try to simplify disagreement. It doesn’t push alignment as a virtue. It seems comfortable with the idea that people will disagree about incentives, about risk, about priorities. What it cares about is whether those disagreements are visible before they matter.
That’s a very different goal than harmony.
I’ve learned that unresolved disagreement isn’t the problem. Unacknowledged disagreement is. Apro feels like it’s trying to surface divergence early, when it’s still manageable. When it can still be talked through instead of litigated.
That intent shows up in how Apro treats expectations. It doesn’t assume expectations are shared just because systems interact successfully for a while. It doesn’t assume precedent equals agreement. It encourages explicitness in places where crypto usually relies on vibes.

Vibes work… until they don’t.

Another thing I appreciate is that Apro doesn’t treat clarity as permanent. It doesn’t freeze agreements in time and pretend they’ll hold forever. It seems to accept that expectations will evolve as conditions change. What matters is that those changes don’t happen invisibly.

Invisible change is what breaks trust.

I’ve also noticed that Apro doesn’t frame itself as protection. It doesn’t promise to keep things safe. It doesn’t guarantee smooth outcomes. It just tries to make it harder for people to be surprised by outcomes they never consciously agreed to.
That’s a modest promise and a realistic one.
What really shifted my perspective is realizing that Apro isn’t about managing systems. It’s about managing interpretation. Two people can look at the same behavior and draw different conclusions if expectations were never made explicit. Apro tries to narrow that gap.

Not eliminate it. Narrow it.

I’ve seen too many post-mortems where the technical explanation made sense, but the emotional reaction didn’t. People weren’t angry because something failed. They were angry because they didn’t recognize the system they thought they were relying on. Apro feels like it’s designed to reduce that kind of emotional whiplash.
That’s not something you can fix with better code alone.

Another subtle thing I respect is how Apro doesn’t force urgency. It doesn’t say “you need this now.” It seems aware that its value grows slowly, alongside complexity. As systems interconnect more deeply, the cost of misunderstanding rises.

Apro feels patient in a way that suggests long-term thinking.
I also like that Apro doesn’t centralize trust. It doesn’t ask you to trust it instead of others. It asks you to understand others more clearly. That distinction matters. Centralized trust creates dependency. Shared clarity creates choice.

Choice is healthier.
Over time, I’ve stopped thinking of Apro as infrastructure and started thinking of it as a social signal embedded in code. A signal that says: “Let’s not pretend we all mean the same thing.” That honesty feels rare in crypto, where optimism often replaces communication.

Optimism is easy. Clarity takes work.

I’ve also noticed that Apro doesn’t reward surface-level compliance. It’s not about ticking boxes. It’s about actually thinking through what you’re relying on and what others are relying on from you. That thoughtfulness can’t be automated away, and Apro doesn’t try to.

It just creates space for it.
Another thing that stands out is how Apro treats growth. As systems scale, they accumulate users who never saw the original discussions, never read the original context. Apro seems designed to help those late arrivals understand the present state without needing the full history.
That’s important, because crypto systems rarely reset. They just accumulate layers.

I think Apro is for people who’ve been surprised one too many times. Not by exploits, but by misunderstandings. People who’ve asked, “How did we end up here?” and realized the answer was “slowly, without noticing.”
That’s why Apro stays interesting to me from this angle. Not because it promises coordination, but because it challenges the assumption that silence equals agreemen

As crypto matures, the loud failures will keep getting attention. The quiet misalignments will keep causing the most lasting damage. Apro doesn’t stop the noise.
It listens to the quiet parts instead.

And the longer I stay in this space, the more I realize that the most important problems aren’t the ones everyone sees coming they’re the ones that form while everyone assumes everything is fine.

#APRO $AT @APRO Oracle

There was a time when doing nothing in crypto felt irresponsible. If I wasn’t adjusting something, rebalancing something, or at least checking something, I felt like I was falling behind. The space almost trains you to believe that attention equals competence. The more you watch, the safer you are. The more you react, the smarter you are.
Over the years, that belief quietly wore me down.
Falcon Finance entered my thinking at a point where I was already questioning that mindset. Not because I’d stopped caring, but because I’d started noticing how much mental energy was being spent just staying alert. Even when nothing bad was happening, I felt like I was on call.

Falcon didn’t remove risk. What it removed was that sense of constant readiness.

What struck me first wasn’t a feature or a mechanism. It was the feeling that Falcon didn’t mind if I stepped back. There was no subtle pressure to stay engaged, no sense that inactivity was a mistake. It didn’t reward me for hovering, and it didn’t punish me for distance.
That alone felt unusual.
Crypto systems often assume users are always present. Always available. Always ready to respond. That assumption shows up everywhere from design choices to communication style. Falcon feels like it was built with a different assumption: people have lives, and crypto is just one part of them.

That assumption changes everything.
The more time I spent around Falcon, the more I realized it wasn’t optimized for moments. It wasn’t trying to shine during volatility or excitement. It was optimized for duration. Long stretches where nothing happens. Weeks where attention drifts. Months where you don’t want to think too hard about positions.

That’s not a glamorous design goal, but it’s a realistic one.
I’ve noticed that many systems perform well when people are watching closely. They fall apart when attention fades. Incentives weaken, behaviors drift, and small issues accumulate unnoticed. Falcon feels like it expects that drift and designs around it rather than pretending it won’t happen.

That expectation makes it feel mature.
Another thing that stood out is how Falcon doesn’t try to make you feel clever. There’s no sense that you need to “get it” to use it correctly. It doesn’t flatter you with complexity or overwhelm you with options. It behaves consistently enough that understanding it deeply isn’t required to interact with it safely.

That’s a form of respect.

I’ve also noticed Falcon doesn’t try to compress decision-making into urgency. There’s no emotional spike pushing you to act now. No framing that suggests timing everything perfectly is essential. It allows decisions to mature instead of forcing them into moments of pressurPressure is where most bad decisions come from.

Falcon’s behavior seems designed to reduce that pressure rather than exploit it. That’s a subtle but important distinction. Many systems thrive on urgency. Falcon seems indifferent to it

Over time, I realized Falcon didn’t just reduce my need to act it reduced my need to interpret. I wasn’t constantly wondering what signals meant or whether behavior had shifted slightly. What I saw yesterday generally held true today.

That predictability builds a quiet kind of trust.
Another thing I appreciate is how Falcon doesn’t attach identity to participation. You’re not expected to believe in anything. You’re not invited into a narrative. You’re not subtly encouraged to defend it publicly. You’re just using a system.

That emotional neutrality keeps judgment clear.

I’ve seen too many situations where people ignored warning signs because admitting a system wasn’t working felt like admitting they were wrong. Falcon avoids that trap by never asking you to emotionally commit in the first place.
It also doesn’t pretend to be universally optimal. It’s not framed as the best option for every scenario. It feels comfortable being appropriate for a certain type of behavior and irrelevant for others. That honesty makes it easier to evaluate without bias.
Another thing that changed my relationship with Falcon was realizing I didn’t feel the urge to constantly reassess it. Many crypto positions feel provisional, like you’re always one update away from needing to rethink everything. Falcon felt more settled than that.
Settled doesn’t mean static. It means coherent.

I’ve also noticed Falcon doesn’t escalate minor changes into major events. There’s no sense that every adjustment requires reinterpretation. That reduces noise, and noise is what usually erodes confidence over time.

Confidence, I’ve learned, doesn’t come from certainty. It comes from familiarity. Falcon behaves in ways that become familiar without becoming dull.

Another subtle point is how Falcon doesn’t assume perfection. It doesn’t pretend outcomes will always be ideal. It just aims to keep them understandable. When something makes sense, even if it’s not ideal, it’s easier to accept and adapt.
Unexplainable outcomes are what damage trust most.

I’ve also started noticing how Falcon fits into longer time horizons. Not just “will this work next week,” but “will this still feel reasonable months from now?” That question matters more as you stop chasing short-term narratives.

Falcon feels designed to age slowly.
That slow aging is something crypto struggles with. Many systems burn bright early and then feel awkward later. Falcon doesn’t feel tied to a moment. It doesn’t feel like it belongs to a specific cycle. That timelessness, if you can call it that, is rare.

Another thing that surprised me is how Falcon doesn’t generate much conversation. People don’t argue about it endlessly. They don’t theorize constantly. It exists quietly. That usually means there’s less friction around it.

Friction generates conversation. Stability rarely does.

I don’t think Falcon Finance is trying to be exciting. It’s trying to be livable. A system that fits into real human rhythms instead of demanding constant attention. A system that allows you to step away without anxiety.
That design choice feels intentional.

As I’ve spent more time in crypto, I’ve stopped valuing systems that make me feel busy. I’ve started valuing systems that make me feel less distracted. Falcon falls firmly into the second category.
That’s why @Falcon Finance sits differently for me now. Not as something I actively manage, but as something that quietly behaves in the background without asking me to perform.
#FalconFinance $FF
And honestly, the longer I stay in this space, the more I realize that doing nothing — when it’s supported by the right syst is sometimes the most rational choice of all.

There’s a difference between choosing something and slowly realizing you’ve been relying on it. I didn’t wake up one day and decide Kite was important. There was no moment where I told myself, “This is a project I believe in.” It happened the same way habits happen quietly, almost accidentally.

At first, Kite was just there. Something in the background. Something I interacted with indirectly more than directly. And that might sound unremarkable, but in crypto, that’s actually unusual. Most systems want to be acknowledged. They want your attention, your reaction, your validation. Kite didn’t seem to care whether I noticed it or not.

That was the first thing that felt different.
I’ve spent enough time in crypto to know that attention is rarely free. Systems that demand it tend to cost you something later — emotionally, mentally, or financially. They keep you engaged, alert, and slightly on edge. Even when things are going well, you’re never fully relaxed. There’s always the sense that you should be checking something, understanding something, staying close.

Kite didn’t create that feeling.

What surprised me is how long it took for that absence to register. You don’t notice calm immediately. You notice it when you return to noise. I’d interact with other systems and feel that familiar tension — the sense that I needed to be present, informed, ready. Then I’d come back to setups involving Kite and realize I wasn’t bracing for anything.

That contrast matters.
I think a lot of crypto infrastructure is built with an unspoken assumption: users want to feel powerful. They want control, levers, options, constant visibility. On paper, that makes sense. In reality, power often turns into obligation. The more control you’re given, the more responsible you feel for outcomes you don’t fully control.

Kite doesn’t lean into that illusion.

It doesn’t try to make you feel like an operator. It doesn’t flatter you with complexity. It doesn’t suggest that attentiveness equals safety. Instead, it behaves consistently enough that your presence or absence doesn’t meaningfully change the experience.

That’s a subtle design choice, but a very human one.
Over time, I realized Kite didn’t just reduce friction — it reduced anticipation. I wasn’t waiting for updates. I wasn’t wondering if something had changed. I wasn’t mentally bookmarking it as something that required follow-up. It simply worked in the same way it worked last time.

Consistency is boring until you’ve lived without it.
Another thing that stood out is how Kite doesn’t seem to optimize for edge cases emotionally. Many systems design for extremes — what happens when things spike, crash, or break. Kite feels more focused on the middle. The long stretches where nothing dramatic happens and people slowly drift away from close attention.

Those stretches are where trust is actually built
I’ve noticed that systems often decay during calm periods. Incentives weaken. Maintenance slips. Assumptions harden. Then when pressure returns, everything cracks at once. Kite feels designed to survive calm, not just chaos.
That’s rare.
I also appreciate how Kite doesn’t position itself as a solution to anything. There’s no big promise attached to it. No claim that it will fix crypto or redefine infrastructure. It feels comfortable being small in scope and clear in purpose. That restraint prevents a lot of overextension.

Overextension is where many good ideas go to die.
Another thing I didn’t expect is how little Kite tries to explain itself emotionally. There’s no attempt to shape how you should feel about it. No reassurance. No excitement. No urgency. It doesn’t care whether you trust it it just behaves in a way that makes trust unnecessary to think about.
That’s a very different relationship than most crypto projects create.

Trust usually feels like something you’re doing. With Kite, trust feels like something that happens when you stop paying attention. And that might be the most telling part of all.

I’ve also noticed how Kite doesn’t punish distance. You can step away, focus on other things, and come back without feeling disoriented. Nothing feels unfamiliar. That continuity matters because real life is fragmented. People don’t stay locked into systems emotionally forever.
Kite feels built for people who leave and return.

That tolerance for absence is something I’ve come to value deeply. Systems that punish absence tend to create anxiety. Systems that tolerate it create space. Kite clearly chose the second path.
Another subtle thing: Kite doesn’t frame itself as irreplaceable. It doesn’t act like everything collapses without it. That humility makes it behave better. Systems that believe they’re indispensable often stop listening. Systems that assume they’ll be evaluated continuously stay disciplined.
Kite feels disciplined.

Even the way people talk about Kite reflects this. There’s no evangelism. No urgency. It’s mentioned casually, often without emphasis. That’s usually how things sound once they’ve settled into usefulness.
Useful things don’t need defending.
Over time, I stopped thinking of Kite as something to assess and started thinking of it as something I’d miss if it disappeared. That’s a different metric entirely. Not excitement. Not upside. Just absence

Absence is how you measure real integration.

I don’t think Kite is trying to change how people behave. It’s trying to change how much energy people spend worrying about behavior. That’s a quieter goal, but arguably a more impactful one.

Crypto is full of systems that promise control. Kite seems more interested in reducing the need for it.
That’s why @KITE AI feels important to me from this angle. Not because it demands trust, but because it quietly earns the freedom to be ignored — and still work.
And the longer I stay in this space, the more I realize that the systems that last aren’t the ones that keep you engaged.
#KITE $KITE
They’re the ones that let you move on.

Percebi algo desconfortável sobre mim mesmo no crypto: por muito tempo, eu estava viciado em sentir-me confiante. Não realmente estar seguro, não realmente estar correto — apenas sentir que entendia o que estava acontecendo. Whitepapers, painéis, métricas, threads explicando por que algo era sólido. Tudo isso alimentava essa sensação.

E a verdade é que a confiança raramente se mantém quando as coisas mudam.

O Kite entrou no meu pensamento em um momento em que eu já estava cansado desse ciclo. Cansado de sistemas que me faziam sentir inteligente enquanto aumentavam silenciosamente minha exposição a coisas que eu realmente não controlava. Cansado de garantias disfarçadas de transparência.

Este é sobre memória, esquecimento e por que o Apro parece ter sido construído para sistemas que sobrevivem às pessoas que os criaram.
Há um momento estranho que acontece em sistemas de longa duração, e a cripto não fala o suficiente sobre isso. É o momento em que as pessoas que construíram algo não são mais as pessoas que o mantêm. Os motivos por trás das decisões se desvanecem. O contexto se perde. O que antes parecia intencional começa a parecer arbitrário.

Eu não percebi esse problema cedo na cripto porque nada era velho o suficiente ainda.

Comecei a notar que a maneira como o crypto fala sobre sistemas raramente corresponde à maneira como as pessoas realmente vivem. Tudo é enquadrado em torno de momentos — entradas, saídas, oportunidades, riscos. É tudo muito orientado a eventos. Mas a maior parte da vida não é assim. A maioria dos dias é repetitiva. Sem eventos. Você acorda, faz o que geralmente faz e segue em frente.
Essa desconexão costumava me incomodar sem que eu realmente a nomeasse.

Falcon Finance é uma das primeiras coisas em crypto que me fez pensar menos sobre momentos e mais sobre rotina. Não retornos, não proteção, não desempenho — rotina. Como algo se encaixa no seu dia quando nada de especial está acontecendo.

Eu não vim para a Apro porque estava procurando melhor coordenação. Vim para isso porque estava cansada de ouvir a mesma desculpa toda vez que algo quebrava: “É assim que os sistemas descentralizados funcionam.” Em algum momento, essa explicação deixa de parecer verdadeira e começa a parecer preguiçosa.
Crypto fala muito sobre liberdade. Sistemas sem permissão. Composição aberta. Qualquer um pode construir sobre qualquer coisa. E isso é poderoso. Mas em algum lugar ao longo do caminho, a liberdade se transformou em uma forma de evitar responsabilidade. Quando ninguém é explicitamente responsável, todos podem alegar que não fizeram nada de errado, mesmo quando o resultado está claramente errado.

There was a point where I realized most of my stress in crypto didn’t come from losses. It came from uncertainty. From not knowing where responsibility ended and improvisation began. From systems that worked fine until they suddenly required me to understand things I didn’t even know I’d agreed to understand.

That’s when Falcon Finance started to make sense to me not as a “safe” system, but as a boundary.
I don’t think Falcon is trying to protect people from risk. That framing always felt a bit dishonest to me anyway. Risk is everywhere in crypto. It doesn’t disappear because a protocol says the right words. What Falcon seems to be doing instead is deciding where risk is allowed to exist and where it isn’t.

That distinction sounds subtle, but it changes how you interact with a system.
Most financial setups in crypto blur those lines. They tell you risk is managed, but they don’t tell you where it lives. Is it in market movement? Liquidity behavior? User action? Governance decisions? Usually it’s all of the above, and you only find out when something breaks.

Falcon feels different because it doesn’t try to hide where the tension is
What I noticed early on is how Falcon isn’t in a hurry to react. In crypto, speed is often mistaken for competence. Fast adjustments, fast rebalancing, fast responses to market conditions. That looks impressive on paper, but speed also amplifies mistakes. When something reacts quickly, it reacts to everything, including noise.

Falcon feels deliberately slower in places where speed would introduce confusion.

At first, that made me uneasy. I’m used to systems that constantly reassure me they’re doing something. Falcon doesn’t do that. It doesn’t narrate its own behavior. It just behaves and lets the outcome speak for itself.

Over time, that silence became comforting.

Another thing that stood out is how Falcon doesn’t assume I’m paying attention. It doesn’t expect me to act at the right moment or interpret signals correctly. It assumes I’ll be distracted, late, or inactive and it designs around that. That feels respectful, not lazy.

Most systems quietly rely on active users to stay stable. They need people to move, rebalance, exit, or intervene. That works fine until people hesitate, panic, or simply don’t show up. Falcon feels built for the reality where users are inconsistent.

That inconsistency isn’t a flaw. It’s human.

I also like how Falcon treats limits as part of its identity, not a temporary inconvenience. Limits aren’t something it apologizes for. They’re something it stands behind. Certain things are capped. Certain behaviors are slowed. Certain opportunities just aren’t there.

That can feel frustrating if you’re chasing maximum efficiency. But efficiency is often where fragility hides. Falcon seems comfortable sacrificing some efficiency to gain clarity

Clarity compounds.
I’ve also noticed how Falcon avoids emotional language. There’s no sense of comfort or reassurance being sold. No implication that things will always be fine. It doesn’t try to calm you. It just tries to behave predictably.

That predictability is what actually builds tru
One of the most useful thought experiments I did was imagining Falcon during a long, boring market. Not a crash. Not a rally. Just months of sideways movement where attention drifts and participation thins out. A lot of systems quietly rot during those periods. Incentives weaken. Maintenance becomes reactive. Assumptions drift.

Falcon feels like it expects that phase.

It doesn’t rely on excitement to stay coherent. It doesn’t need constant tuning to remain understandable. That tolerance for boredom is rare, and it’s usually a sign of maturity.
Another thing that matters to me now is how systems handle blame. When something goes wrong, do they turn it into a narrative problem or a technical one? Falcon’s clearer boundaries make it easier to understand what happened without spinning stories. That matters because ambiguity is where trust erodes fastest.
I’ve also grown to appreciate that Falcon doesn’t try to scale emotionally. There’s no community posture you’re expected to adopt. No sense that participation equals loyalty. You can step away without guilt. You can question things without drama.

That emotional distance keeps decision-making clean.

Growth-wise, Falcon doesn’t feel rushed. It doesn’t behave like it needs to capture attention quickly to survive. That patience suggests confidence in the structure itself, not in market conditions. Systems that rely on urgency often behave recklessly. Falcon doesn’t feel reckless.

What changed my relationship with Falcon most, though, was realizing I didn’t need to constantly reevaluate it. It wasn’t something I felt the urge to check daily or reassess emotionally. It just sat there, doing what it said it would do.

That’s not exciting. It’s stabilizing.

Over time, I stopped thinking about Falcon in terms of returns or optimization and started thinking about it in terms of mental load. How much attention does this require from me? How often does it surprise me? How often does it force me to react?

Falcon scores well on the things I care about more now.

I don’t think Falcon Finance is trying to win crypto. I think it’s trying to carve out a space where behavior stays understandable even when conditions aren’t ideal. That’s not a flashy ambition, but it’s a durable one.

That’s why @Falcon Finance feels less like a product and more like a line in the sand. A decision to stop pretending risk can be erased and start managing where it’s allowed to exist.

And honestly, that feels like a very adult choice in a space that often avoids making them.
#FalconFinance $FF

Acho que está tentando evitar se tornar um.

Há uma pergunta que comecei a me fazer mais frequentemente em cripto, e não é a usual. Não estou perguntando se um sistema é inovador, escalável ou composável. Estou perguntando algo mais simples: se isso existir por cinco anos, vai melhorar as coisas silenciosamente ou vai lentamente se tornar outra coisa sobre a qual as pessoas reclamam?

Essa pergunta muda a forma como vejo o Kite.
Não vim para o Kite com curiosidade. Vim com fadiga. Cansado de sistemas que funcionam bem no início e depois lentamente se transformam em dores de cabeça. Cansado de integrações que parecem suaves até que algo pequeno mude e, de repente, nada se alinha mais. Cansado de ser surpreendido por comportamentos que tecnicamente faziam sentido, mas que na prática causaram danos.

Há um certo mito no crypto que ainda persiste, mesmo depois de anos de duras lições: se os sistemas forem abertos o suficiente, a coordenação simplesmente acontecerá. Se tudo for composável, sem permissão e transparente, os comportamentos corretos surgirão por conta própria. Eu costumava acreditar nisso também. É uma ideia atraente porque permite que todos se movimentem rapidamente sem fazer perguntas difíceis sobre responsabilidade.

O que eventualmente quebrou essa crença para mim não foi uma grande falha, mas muitas pequenas.

Não são hacks. Não são colapsos. Apenas momentos em que as coisas não se comportaram da maneira que alguém esperava, e ninguém conseguiu explicar claramente o porquê. Um protocolo assumiu que outro agiria de forma conservadora. Outro assumiu que as atualizações seriam lentas. Um terceiro assumiu que a liquidez sempre estaria lá sob certas condições. Cada suposição fez sentido localmente. Juntas, formaram um sistema que ninguém realmente possuía.

Há um momento que a maioria das pessoas no crypto eventualmente atinge, onde elas param de perguntar como vencer o risco e começam a perguntar como conviver com ele. Não evitá-lo, não superá-lo, não fingir que ele desapareceu - apenas viver com ele de uma maneira que não exige vigilância constante. Essa mudança geralmente ocorre depois que você foi surpreendido uma vez demais por sistemas que pareciam estáveis até que deixaram de ser.

Falcon Finance é um dos poucos projetos que me fez sentir como se outra pessoa já tivesse passado por essa fase e construído de acordo.

Eu notei algo sobre como meu relacionamento com criptomoedas mudou ao longo do tempo. Eu costumava me sentir atraído por sistemas que eu podia explicar facilmente para outras pessoas. Se eu pudesse resumir um projeto em algumas frases confiantes, isso parecia um sinal de que eu o entendia. Ultimamente, no entanto, estou mais interessado em sistemas que não se encaixam perfeitamente nesse padrão. Sistemas que não me pedem para explicá-los, defendê-los ou envolvê-los em uma história.

Kite é um desses sistemas.

O que me atraiu para o Kite não foi uma funcionalidade ou um momento de roadmap. Foi uma sensação que tive ao olhá-lo: isso não quer minha opinião. Não quer meu entusiasmo. Não parece nem se importar se eu falo sobre isso. E estranhamente, isso me fez confiar mais nele.