Marlowe

A cat sits on your pages and writes a novel out of your typing. It counts keystrokes only, never what you type.

A small cat sits in the corner of every page you visit. When you type, he types. When you stop, he looks up. When you have been gone a while, he falls asleep. Everything you write anywhere in your browser becomes words in a novel he is writing. Six hundred words finishes a chapter. Ten chapters finishes a book, and the book goes on the shelf in his study with a spine as thick as the words you put into it. Then he starts another one, and the post begins to arrive: readers who missed their tram, reviewers who found it damp in places, publishers who regret that it is not right for their list at this time. His study is a room, not a dashboard. A lamp, a shelf of everything he has finished, the letters, and a book of days. You can move him anywhere on the page, hide him on any site, or turn him off entirely from the toolbar. What he does not do He counts that you typed. He never sees what. Marlowe reads no text. For every key press it adds one to a counter and throws the key away, inside the event handler, before anything else happens. It never touches page contents, form fields, URLs, or page titles, and it does not count anything typed in a password field. There is no server, no account, no analytics, and no network request of any kind. Everything he knows is a small number stored on your own computer. Everything above is free. Rooms are the only thing that will ever be sold, and the writing itself will never be one of them. Your record is yours. The Study saves everything to a file you keep, and restores from one, because nothing syncs and uninstalling deletes it.