One drop
Each view has a single point of impact: the live action, the open note, the unread tide. It alone is rendered at full ink.
The signature mechanic
Hierarchy as radial distance from the strike.
Forget stacked cards and ink-heavy headings. In Tidemark, the one thing you came for is the strike-point — bright, concentrated, central — and everything else diffuses outward into the dark, lighter the further it travels.
The spread
Supporting detail blooms outward in feathered washes, recoloured by the palette but always quieter than the core.
What remains
When the page settles, a faint line marks how far attention reached — the record the receding water leaves behind.
Read by density, not by chart
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The depth gauge
A page is a still pool. The deeper a note sinks, the quieter it becomes — never deleted, only dissolved.
Old entries don't vanish; they descend. The ruler shows where each layer sits below the lit surface, so closing a note is a gentle release into depth, not a discard.
Below the surface
00m · today, live
04m · this week
12m · this season
28m · last year
40m · the archive floor
A real field log
Eddystone, low water, 06:14.
Three readers keep their tides in Tidemark — a lighthouse keeper logging the morning ebb, a printmaker timing her ink baths, a hospice nurse writing the slow notes that should never feel urgent.
The morning ebb
"The drop spread further than yesterday. Logged the tidemark; let last week's readings sink a band deeper."
Ink-bath timer
"Surfaced the live batch as the seal. Everything else washed back so I could see the one plate that mattered."
Slow notes
"Nothing blinks, nothing nags. Notes settle on their own. The quiet is the point."
Let the next note find its edge.
Open a still pool, drop one mark, and watch the rest of your day settle into depth.