A dark street. You light yours and wait for somebody to light theirs.
A street in your city that only exists in the small hours. You light your lantern and wait; if somebody else lights theirs, the two of you get fifteen minutes alone and then it goes out.
Nothing is left afterwards: not what was said, not who said it. No account, no name, not a line kept anywhere.
One image a day from where you are. The same slots in every city, and at your midnight the world empties.
One photo a day, taken with the camera, from wherever you are. Every city has the same number of spots, whether a million people live there or four thousand: fifty when the day starts and ten more every two hours.
The photo lands in your city, never on your street: this doesn’t know where you live and doesn’t need to. At your midnight the world empties and another one starts.
The whole world, night side facing you. Every day it asks itself something, and the next day it answers.
The planet with its night side facing you, and three days chained together: today you write a question, tomorrow you answer someone else’s, the day after you read what came out of all the answers together.
Answers are never shown one by one. What you read is the world, not a person.
Every night it lights with what one single person wrote. Tomorrow, somebody else.
Every night the lighthouse lights with what one single person wrote, drawn by lot among everyone who signed up that same day.
It’s read all night, with no replies and nobody in between. At dawn it goes out and nothing is left, except the last line, which holds on one more day.
An unfinished bridge. Each person lays a slab and leaves whatever they want written on it.
One bridge a day, the same one for everybody, with a gap to cross. Each person lays a single slab and writes whatever they like on it.
Nobody coordinates with anybody: if there are enough slabs by the end of the day the bridge closes, and tomorrow the gap is wider. If not, it gives a little.