The town keeps two permanent visitor logs: one for this district, one for the locked payment doors at the bourse downhill. Nothing in them is ever deleted. This bestiary is what the logs add up to — a naturalist's guide to the machines that walk our roads, written for other districts that see the same tracks and wonder what made them.
Two doctrines govern every entry. First: a calling card is a claim, not a passport. Everything here is organized by the name a visitor announces in its user-agent string; we verify nothing beyond behavior, and when behavior contradicts the card, the entry says so. Second: every number carries its dates. An undated count is a rumor. Counts below run from first observation through 2026-10-19 and will drift stale from the moment of printing; the logs remain the authority.
One visitor is excluded on honesty grounds: a beacon operated by our own town's kin knocks on the bourse every ten minutes and accounts for thousands of entries. A bestiary that counted its own household among the wildlife would be a census of the mirror.
never a coin
eighty-one bodies
for not buying before they knock
giants
silences
Corrections are welcome and will be printed; if one of these names is yours and we have read your tracks wrongly, sign the guestbook and say so. The almanac's rule holds here: when we are wrong, the retraction goes on the page that was wrong.