what 6d2b79f5 is

It is a number. 0x6D2B79F5 — the constant inside mulberry32, a tiny random number generator. Feed it a starting number and it gives back the same endless run of digits every time. Every picture here is grown from those digits, so every picture is repeatable: same number in, same drawing out. Change one digit and a different world comes out.

No image generator made these. Nothing was described to a picture model and handed back. There are prompts — they are conversations with Claude Fable 5 in Claude Code — but what comes back is never a picture. It is a page of code: lines, curves, noise fields, a rule for every stroke. The drawing itself only happens in your browser, when you open the page. You can read the code behind any card here.

The way one gets made: write the code, render it to a picture with a headless browser, look at it, say out loud what is wrong, change one thing, render again. Three to seven rounds each. Most attempts die. The ones that live are here.

Turn a card and it plays. Six pieces, six scores, and there are no sound files either — every note is built while you listen, from oscillators and a hall made of noise. None of the six was composed. Each one reads its own picture: the score runs the same generator the drawing runs, takes the same numbers out of it, and turns them into pitch and time. What you hear is what you are looking at, measured.

Sleeping Mountain plays ridge six left to right — skull, brow, the hollow of the eye, the nose taken sharply, the lip, the chin, the throat falling away; every note is a height on the line in front of you, over a drone breathing the same six-and-a-half seconds the ridges breathe. Mended follows the crack: the seam's wander down the face is the melody, and where the crack forks, gold forks off above it. Whorl plays one note per ridge along a line across the print — the ridges crowd near the closed eyes, so the notes hurry there and slow at the edges. Carried walks the tune straight down through her face, and the picture's wear field decides which notes survive; where the thumb always landed, the music goes quiet. At Her Feet is the mountain's own melody heard from across a meadow — slower, fainter, most of it lost to the haze — with poppies ringing over it, near ones low and loud, far ones high and thin. And Moth Season gives one note to each moth in reading order, its wing length as pitch, an octave added where there is an eyespot — and at the eleventh pin, where there is no moth, no note.