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Introduction: Unveiling littlebag Meet littlebag , a reactive UI framework that defies conventional expectations by packing essential features into a mere 343 bytes (minified and brotlified). This isn’t just a technical curiosity—it’s a proof of concept that challenges the notion that UI frameworks must be bloated to be functional. littlebag includes: Reactive state management via state and effect , enabling dynamic updates without manual DOM manipulation. An html element factory that inherently supports reactivity, reducing boilerplate code. Conditional rendering with keyed , allowing efficient updates to specific UI segments. Reactive lists using each , simplifying the handling of dynamic data collections. TypeScript declarations , ensuring type safety and developer productivity. The framework’s size is achieved through aggressive tree-shaking and code minimization , stripping away all non-essential logic. However, this comes at a cost: performance limitations due to the absence of optimizations like virtual DOM diffing or batch updates . Each reactive update triggers direct DOM manipulation, which can lead to layout thrashing —a mechanical process where frequent reflows and repaints cause frame rate drops, making the UI feel sluggish. Inspired by VanJS (1 kB) and its dependency on an additional 1.2 kB library (Van X), littlebag aims to eliminate such overhead. Yet, its current state is experimental. Without user feedback, it risks remaining a niche project, failing to address its performance bottlenecks or evolve into a viable alternative to larger frameworks. The creator’s plan to add Server-Side Rendering (SSR) hinges on community interest, but SSR itself introduces complexity—requiring a custom DOM implementation to avoid client-side hydration costs. If users engage, littlebag could become a lightweight SSR solution; if not, it may stagnate as a curiosity. The stakes are clear: littlebag’s utility depends on whether it can balance its minimalism with practical

Quick note before we dive in — I know I've been off track from the iOS/Swift series lately. I just...

The Problem: Why Most Telegram Payment Bots Fail You've built a Telegram bot that sells digital courses, takes coffee orders, or offers freelance services. Traffic is flowing. But when your bot tries to collect payment, you hit a wall: Payment gateways demand hefty setup fees and compliance audits You end up holding customer money in an intermediary account (legal liability) Settlement takes 3–5 days, frustrating both you and buyers Integration is a maze of webhooks, IPNs, and error handling A founder we know spent two weeks wrestling with Stripe's Telegram integration, only to discover the monthly fee ate 40% of his margins on $2–5 transactions. He needed something lighter, faster, and truly peer-to-peer. Enter AgentPay VN : an open-source Python SDK that lets your Telegram bot generate QR codes pointing directly to your bank account. No middleman. No holding funds. Just instant VietQR payments via the banking system Vietnameses already use daily. What Is AgentPay VN? AgentPay VN is an MIT-licensed Python SDK + MCP server that orchestrates VietQR payment requests. Here's the mental model: You create a payment request in your bot (e.g., "Customer ordered coffee for 50,000 VND") AgentPay generates a checkout URL with an embedded QR code Customer scans → pays → bank confirms settlement in seconds Your bot receives a webhook callback and fulfills the order The key: AgentPay never touches money . The QR points straight at your merchant bank account. A bank feed confirms settlement. You own the transaction end-to-end. Why Telegram + VietQR? Telegram has 180+ million users , with especially strong adoption in Southeast Asia. Vietnamese merchants already use banking apps (MB Bank, Techcombank, VCB) that natively support VietQR scanning. Your bot becomes a natural extension of their daily workflow: Customer receives a payment link in chat Opens the QR code (in-app or screenshot) Scans with their banking app (2–3 taps) Money clears to your account in minutes Bot auto-confirm

The MVP was a great idea that got misused. "Minimum viable product" was meant to be the smallest experiment that tests a hypothesis. In practice it became an excuse to ship something broken and call it strategy. The minimum lovable product — MLP — is the correction: the smallest release that people actually want to use, not just tolerate. Knowing which one you need is a scoping decision, not a philosophy. The difference in one line An MVP asks will they use it at all? An MLP asks will they love the part we built? The MVP tests demand with the roughest possible artifact. The MLP narrows scope but polishes what remains until it's genuinely good. Both are about doing less. They disagree on where the "less" goes — fewer features versus rougher features. Why the bar has risen When users had few alternatives, a rough MVP could win on novelty. Today almost every category is crowded, and people judge a new product against the polished tools they already use. A janky first impression doesn't read as "early" — it reads as "not for me," and they don't come back. In a saturated market, lovability is the viability test. When an MVP is still right Ship a true MVP when the core question is demand, not quality: You're genuinely unsure anyone wants this at all. The audience is early adopters who tolerate rough edges for access. You can learn what you need from a small, forgiving group. Speed to a signal matters more than the strength of the signal. Here, spending weeks polishing something nobody wants is the expensive mistake. When to reach for an MLP Choose an MLP when demand is fairly clear but the market is competitive: Users have real alternatives and will compare you to them. Your differentiation is the experience — feel, speed, design. First impressions are hard to reverse. Word of mouth depends on delight, not just function. Scope narrow, finish deep The trap with "lovable" is treating it as license to add features. It's the opposite. Pick fewer things and finish them complet

Picture a power plant burning fuel to spin a turbine. It is tempting to assume that with enough engineering — better seals, smoother bearings, cleaner combustion — the plant could be pushed toward converting nearly all its heat into useful work. It cannot. A large modern thermal power station turns only something like 40 to 45 percent of its fuel energy into electricity, and the missing majority is not lost to sloppy design. It is lost to a law of physics. That law sets a ceiling on every device that turns heat into work, from a car engine to a steam turbine to a jet. The ceiling is called the Carnot efficiency, and the remarkable thing about it is how little it depends on. Not on the working fluid, not on the mechanism, not on the cleverness of the builder — only on two temperatures. This article explains where that limit comes from, how to compute it, and why it reshapes how engineers think about efficiency. Why this calculation matters The Carnot efficiency is the benchmark against which every real engine is judged. When an engineer reports that a gas turbine runs at 38 percent efficiency, that number means little on its own. Compared against the Carnot limit for the same hot and cold temperatures, it suddenly tells you how much room is left — whether the design is already near the physical wall or still has slack worth chasing. It also redirects design effort toward the things that actually matter. Because the Carnot limit depends only on the ratio of cold to hot absolute temperatures, the single most powerful way to raise the ceiling is to raise the temperature at which heat enters the engine, or lower the temperature at which it is rejected. This is why turbine inlet temperatures have climbed for decades, pushing the limits of metallurgy and cooling. Polishing internal friction yields small gains; raising the hot-side temperature raises the ceiling itself. The core formula Sadi Carnot, in 1824, imagined an idealized engine running on a perfectly reversible cyc

How you split your code into repositories seems like a plumbing decision, but it quietly shapes how your team collaborates, ships, and reasons about the system. A monorepo keeps everything in one repository; a polyrepo gives each service or app its own. Neither is universally right, and the loudest opinions online usually ignore your actual stage and team size. Here's how to think about it clearly. What a monorepo buys you A monorepo puts your web app, mobile app, backend, and shared libraries under one roof. The advantages are real, especially for smaller teams: Atomic changes. Update a shared type and every consumer in the same pull request. No cross-repo coordination dance. One source of truth for tooling. A single lint, format, and CI config instead of drift across a dozen repos. Effortless code sharing. Shared TypeScript packages are just imports, not published versions you have to bump and reinstall everywhere. Easy refactoring. You can find and fix every caller of a function because it's all in front of you. Tools like Turborepo and Nx make this practical by caching builds and only running work for the parts that actually changed. What a monorepo costs The trade-offs show up as you grow. Build and CI times can balloon without smart caching. Access control is coarser — it's harder to give a contractor one service without the whole codebase. And a naive setup rebuilds and tests everything on every change, which gets slow fast. Good tooling mitigates all of this, but you have to invest in it deliberately. What a polyrepo buys you Separate repositories give each service hard boundaries . A team owns its repo end to end, deploys on its own schedule, and can't accidentally reach into another team's internals. Access control is naturally granular, CI for each repo is small and fast, and the blast radius of a bad change is contained. The cost is coordination. A change that spans services becomes multiple pull requests across multiple repos that must land in the right

Users judge a mobile app in the first few seconds, and they judge it harshly. A slow launch, stuttering scroll, or a device that runs hot will sink an otherwise good app faster than a missing feature. Performance isn't one metric — it's four distinct areas, each with its own causes and fixes. Here's how to keep all of them healthy. Startup time — the first impression Time from tap to usable screen is the metric users feel most. Every extra second measurably increases abandonment. The usual culprits are doing too much before the first frame: heavy synchronous work at launch, loading data you don't yet need, and oversized bundles. Fixes: Defer non-essential initialization until after the first screen renders Lazy-load features and screens instead of loading everything upfront Show a real first screen fast, then hydrate data — don't block on the network Trim your dependency footprint; every library adds to startup cost Rendering — kill the jank Smooth means hitting the device's frame budget (about 16ms per frame for 60fps). Dropped frames show up as stutter during scrolling and animation. The main causes are doing heavy work on the UI thread and rendering more than you need. Virtualize long lists so only visible rows render (FlatList, RecyclerView equivalents) Move expensive work off the main thread Avoid unnecessary re-renders — in React Native, memoize and keep render functions cheap Optimize images: right-sized, cached, and in efficient formats Memory — don't get killed The OS terminates apps that use too much memory, and users read that crash as your bug. Leaks and oversized assets are the main offenders. Watch for retained references, unbounded caches, and full-resolution images held in memory. Load and decode images at display size, release resources when screens unmount, and cap in-memory caches. Battery and network — the invisible costs Users blame the app that drains their battery even if they can't name why. The big drains are aggressive polling, chatty netwo

Microservices have a marketing problem: they're associated with the engineering cultures of Netflix and Amazon, so ambitious teams assume adopting them is what serious companies do. But those companies moved to microservices to solve problems of enormous scale and huge headcount — problems you almost certainly don't have yet. For most products, splitting too early is one of the most expensive mistakes you can make. Here's the honest trade-off. What a monolith actually gives you A monolith is one deployable application. That simplicity is a feature, not a limitation, especially early: One codebase, one deploy. No orchestration, no service mesh, no distributed tracing just to understand a request. Simple debugging. A stack trace crosses your whole request. You're not correlating logs across five services to find one bug. Fast local development. Run the whole app on your laptop and iterate. Easy transactions. Data consistency is a database transaction, not a distributed saga you have to design and get right. The modern version isn't a big ball of mud. A modular monolith enforces clean internal boundaries — separate modules with clear interfaces — giving you much of the organization of microservices with none of the network overhead. What microservices actually cost Splitting into services doesn't remove complexity; it moves it from your code into the network, where it's harder to see and reason about. You inherit a long list of new problems: Distributed systems failure modes — partial failures, retries, timeouts, and eventual consistency become your daily reality. Data consistency across services — no more easy transactions; you're designing sagas and compensating actions. Operational overhead — every service needs deployment, monitoring, logging, and on-call. Slower local development and debugging — reproducing a bug can mean running half your architecture. For a small team, this overhead can consume the very velocity you were trying to gain. When microservices genuin

LLM features are cheap to prototype and surprisingly expensive to run at scale. A demo that costs pennies becomes a five-figure monthly bill once real users arrive, because every request pays per token and it's easy to send far more tokens than you need. The good news: most AI bills are bloated, and a handful of tactics reliably cut them without users noticing any drop in quality. Right-size the model per task The most expensive mistake is using your biggest, smartest model for everything. Most work in a product doesn't need it. Route by difficulty: Small, fast models for classification, extraction, routing, and simple rewrites. Frontier models only for genuinely hard reasoning or high-stakes output. Implement a model router : a cheap first pass decides how hard the task is, and only the hard cases escalate to the premium model. This single change often cuts spend dramatically because the long tail of easy requests stops paying frontier prices. Cache aggressively Many requests are repeats or near-repeats. Don't pay twice: Exact-match caching — identical prompts return a stored response instantly and for free. A simple PostgreSQL or Redis lookup keyed on the request works. Prompt caching — most providers let you cache a large, stable prefix (system prompt, retrieved context) so you're only billed full price for the changing part. Semantic caching — for questions that are similar but not identical, match on embeddings and reuse an answer when confidence is high. Trim the tokens You pay for every token in and out, so waste is literal money: Compress prompts. Cut boilerplate, redundant instructions, and bloated few-shot examples. Shorter prompts that keep quality are pure savings. Retrieve less, better. In RAG, don't stuff twenty chunks in when three well-chosen ones answer the question. Re-rank and send only what's needed. Cap output. Ask for concise responses and set a max length; unbounded generations quietly inflate bills. Batch and stream For work that isn't real-t

The animal escaped after apparently arriving inside a package at Meta's Bangkok office, injuring one employee before finally being caught.

The problem Doc references to a line number or function name break the moment code gets refactored. You write "see line 142 of foo.py " or "see calculateRefund() " in a design doc, then six months later the line has shifted or the function got renamed, and the reference just quietly points at the wrong thing (or nothing). Nobody notices until someone follows it and lands in the wrong place. The fix Anchor Pointing is a tiny text convention that swaps the location for a fixed ID. You drop an ID at the destination you want to be a durable reference target: ap.<21-char-base62-id>.E and reference it from anywhere else, docs, other code, tickets, with: ap.ref.<21-char-base62-id>.E Both are just literal strings, so resolving a reference is a plain text search: grep , ripgrep , GitHub code search, Sourcegraph, your IDE, whatever you already use. The ap.ref. prefix exists specifically so a search for the anchor itself never also matches its own references. Rules One anchor per ID (a single, unambiguous destination) Unlimited references pointing at that ID ID is 21-char base62, making collisions a non-issue with no central coordination Spec: https://github.com/nickolay-kondratyev/anchor-points/blob/main/ANCHOR_POINTS_SPEC.md Feedback welcome, especially if this already exists under another name and I've reinvented something. submitted by /u/ThorgBuilder [link] [留言]

Abertura Eu sempre participei de comunidades de tecnologia: grupos de estudo do Google,...

The saga of Musk's tussle with the SEC over how he disclosed his growing stake in Twitter (now X) has come to an end.

The $300 million round is expected to be led by Menlo Ventures, Sifted reported.

Meta might be the next company to make an always-on AI wearable. The company is working on prototype "super sensing" always-aware smart glasses that could continuously record audio and snap photos "every few seconds," according to the Financial Times. The wearer could then ask Meta AI about the captured audio and images. However, the images […]

The social platform wants its crowd-sourced corrections to be harder to ignore.

The National Highway Traffic Safety Administration said emergency scenes are not "edge cases."

I run a local LLM agent (Hermes) on my own machine. The problem was never the model — it was the interface . I had a Telegram tab open all day just to talk to it: type a command, wait, read a wall of text back, scroll. It felt like texting a very capable stranger. So I built Ghost Vessel — a monitor-resident, video-call-style avatar that fronts the agent. The name is the whole idea: the ghost is your agent, the vessel is the body it borrows. It's not a waifu toy; it's a real agent client that happens to have a face. Here's what actually turned out to be interesting to build. The reply is a script, not a string The core idea is an output contract . Instead of treating the agent's reply as text to print, I split every reply into three planes: dialogue → spoken via local TTS data → code, logs, files → rendered as chat cards, never read aloud action → emotion beats that drive the avatar Emotion beats are inline tags the model emits in-band with its answer: [working] — the avatar puts on glasses and takes notes while a task runs [confirm] deploy to prod? — pops a human-in-the-loop approve/cancel, and the agent blocks on your keypress [happy] / [concerned] / … — fine-grained facial expressions So "run the build, and if it passes, deploy" becomes a little performance : it looks busy while working, shows you the log as a card, then leans in and asks before the irreversible step. The text you'd have skim-read becomes something you glance at. No runtime GPU for the avatar The obvious way to animate a face is live inference. I didn't want that — the GPU is busy running the actual model. Instead the avatar is ~30 pre-rendered clips , and the emotion beats just select and blend between them (blink-aligned seamless idle loops, a head-pose "settle gate" so an expression only reveals when the head is frontal). The avatar's runtime cost is basically video playback. Your GPU stays 100% on your LLM. The tradeoff: no real-time lip-sync. I decided a believable talking mouth loop + expre

I am interested in agentic coding for the same reason I care about good engineering process in general: I want work to move forward in a way that is inspectable, repeatable, and resilient once the task gets messy. A lot of AI-assisted coding still feels like improvisation. You ask for something, get a result, adjust the prompt, try again, and hope the useful reasoning is still somewhere in the scrollback. That can work for tiny edits. It gets much less convincing when the task starts touching architecture, tests, review, or pull requests. What I want instead is a workflow where the model helps me think and execute, but inside a structure I can inspect afterwards. I want artifacts, gates, and something I can resume tomorrow without reconstructing the entire mental state from memory. That is why I use po8rewq/agentic-skills . It gives me a practical way to do agentic coding as an engineering workflow rather than as a long sequence of chat turns. A task moves through requirements, architecture, implementation, checks, review, and pull request creation. Each stage leaves something I can read, verify, and challenge. What makes this interesting to me The interesting part is not just that there is a CLI. Plenty of tools have a CLI. What matters to me is that it turns AI-assisted coding into a staged system: requirements force the task to become explicit architecture makes risks visible before code is written implementation happens against a plan instead of against a vague prompt checks and review happen as part of the flow, not as an afterthought runs are resumable, so interruptions do not destroy context That changes the feel of the work quite a bit. Instead of asking "what should I prompt next?", I am usually asking "what stage is this task in, and what should exist before I move on?" Where this really clicked for me was when I noticed I was spending less energy trying to preserve context in my head and more energy evaluating actual outputs. What the repository actually

Every API request needs to answer: who is this, and are they allowed? Session auth answers it by having the server remember every login. JWT answers it by making the client carry its own proof — no server memory needed. What's inside a token Header . Payload . Signature. Header and payload are just base64-encoded — readable by anyone, not encrypted. The signature is what matters: a hash of the header + payload, made with a secret key only the server knows. Change one character of the payload, the signature breaks, the server rejects it. Trust comes from the math, not from hiding the data. Client logs in with credentials Server verifies them, signs a token, sends it back Client attaches the token to every future request Server checks the signature — no database lookup Valid + not expired → request proceeds No session table anywhere. The auth state lives inside the token itself. The trade-off Can't instantly revoke a token — it's valid until it expires. Fix: short-lived access tokens + a revocable refresh token. Payload is readable, so never put sensitive data in it. Security comes from HTTPS + safe client-side storage, not secrecy. One-liner to remember it by Session auth: remember who logged in, check memory each time. JWT: remember nothing, verify the proof each time.