Pick a few photos, write what happened, and Kino typesets a private monthly issue about someone you love — proofed by you, sent only to the people who miss them. No feed, no followers. A print run of one family. Ten minutes a month. Pick a few photos, write what happened, and Kino typesets it into an issue of their first year — proofed by you, kept forever in your inbox. No feed, no followers. A child, a grandparent, a partner — even the dog. Pick a few photos, write what happened, and Kino typesets the month. You read the proof. You choose who gets it.
Kino borrows its shape from print. Each month, you edit one issue about someone you love — a cover photo, a few short sections, your words. You are the editor. Kino is only the typesetter: it drafts from your notes and captions, never from anything else, and nothing ships without your approval.
By December you're holding a collection — twelve issues, a whole year that can't get lost three thousand photos deep in the camera roll.
It arrives as an email, not an app notification: a thing the grandparents already know how to open, reply to, and keep.
Who this issue is about, and which month. Two questions, thirty seconds.
Pick up to ten photos and write what happened. Your captions and your note are the only things Kino reads.
Choose a voice — warm, funny, concise — then read the proof and edit every line. Nothing ships until you approve it.
One tap, and the issue lands in the inboxes you chose. And only those.
Every issue begins with one question — who is this about? Kino's prompts adapt to the relationship: a first year, a grandparent's stories, a partner's small habits, a very good dog. One editor, as many storylines as you like.
Each issue is properly typeset — masthead, numbered sections, a colophon — and lands as an email anyone can open.
Fourteen months in, and May belonged to walking — wobbly, determined, and mostly toward the dog's bowl. A first beach trip, a first word that might be "ball," and a new favorite game with the kitchen pots.
Six steps on Tuesday, eleven by Friday. He falls like it's part of the plan and gets up grinning every time.
Sat down at the waterline, stared at one wave, and filed a formal complaint. The sand, however, was excellent eating.
· Waves "bye" to the washing machine, every cycle.
· New tooth, top left, very proud.
· Fell asleep holding a spatula. Twice.
Written only from the editor's notes and captions. Sent privately to one inbox. Reply to this email and it reaches the editor, not a company.
Kino sees exactly what you hand it — nothing more. That's not a setting. It's the design.
Kino typesets; you author. Drafts are assembled only from the notes and captions you typed — Kino never inspects photo contents, never invents milestones, and you edit every line before approving the proof. There's even a fully deterministic mode with no AI at all.
The recipients you confirm, and no one else. There are no public pages, no links that leak, no feed. The default print run is one: your own inbox.
Only the photos you hand-pick are uploaded, resized, and stored in private buckets scoped to your account. Export the whole collection as a ZIP whenever you like; deleting your account removes everything, permanently.
Android first, with iOS to follow. Issues themselves are email — so the people you send to need nothing but an inbox.
Ten minutes now. In a year, twelve issues nobody else could have made.