The Game Maker's Toolkit - "The Two Types of Random in Game Design" (RNG)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dwI5b-wRLic

seems to host interesting stuff, just like AI & Games

loanword & calque

English has two different terms for words that come into English from other languages. A 'calque' is translated from the source language. (E.g., flea market, beer garden, paper tiger.) A 'loanword' is ported in its original form. (E.g., cafe, bazaar, kindergarten) Perhaps ironically, the word 'calque' is a loanword, while the 'loanword' is a calque (from Ger. 'lehnwort').

Cassandra Khaw - "The Salt Grows Heavy"

amazing adult fairy tale - for lack of a better word - of a protagonist a mermaid, dragged from the sea by a prince who she led her daughters devour, and her plague-doctor.

Body horror, similar sometimes to B. Catling. Fairytale like Katherine Arden. 

There. I could go there, perhaps. Find another sovereign, who'd fish a mute from the waters, who'd marry her, bed her, murder her sisters for a superstition, and then pry the teeth from her gums for the sake of caution. I could find one of those again, maybe, and wait until my daughters come to gnaw his country down to its bones.

    "Do you not care that they are children?"
    "No." I think of the lynx beneath teh river, its veins crystallizing. Of Luke on his bier, newborn and screaming, the wet pink of his lungs like the ruined stub of a tongue hidden behind a smile. Of my daughters, suckling the marrow from their father's kingdom, growing stronger by the hour. "Like everything else, they are only meat."

    It is always interesting to see how often women are described as ravenous when it is the men who, without exception, take without thought of compensation.
    I smile at the girl and stoop so that we are eye-to-eye. "Why would she want a harvest of bones?"

    "Your eyes were green before." And they'd tasted of lime and sweat and ice, had dissolved on my tongue like crème. I had eaten those like I'd eaten the heart, the hand.
    "I'm certain," says the surgeon, fingers threading together. His new eyes are silver, like starlight strained and sieved, stainless save for the pinholes of his pupils. "That you believed they were green. Green is a very beautiful color."

I allow myself, for the gash of a moment, to remember what I once possessed: the abyssal ocean, the song in those depths like swimming down the black throat of a god; the searing colors moting my sisters' coils, sapphire and quartz crushed into constellations, patterns and prisms of incandescence spiraling through the dark, our tails in endless, restless motion; our mother's eyes colossal, phosphorescent; our father's ribs, still studded with our egg sacs, his heartbeat in our veins. I'd been happy there. I could have been happy there forever.

A drag of vermillion across the trampled snow. Bloodied palmprints clawed into the white. Countless footprints, but only one set suggests that its owner might have staggered, might have fallen, weighted down by their robes, before they wrestled equilibrium from the cold and shambled onwards, blades between their knuckles and wolves at their heels. No bile or piss, however, no pus or reek of infection. No vomit. Only red blood blackening to ice. They bled my plague doctor, but not with the intention to kill.
    To hobble, yes. To slow, to ensure against the risk of a fair game. When some children play at slaughtering, the pig must always die, or else what point is there in pursuing the squealing hog through the woods and the wild? 

Yazz Ahmed - "Misophonia"

jazz-trumpet and instrumental eeriness.

Arun Ghosh - "Hanji!"

mostly instrumental, electro jazz ish