The most public thing you own
keeps the rest of you private.
Today, your email address is the thread that ties you together. Every site you ever gave it to can compare notes, and a whole industry exists to do exactly that: your purchases, your forums, and your pharmacy, all on one line of text.
A Liirlit turns that inside out. One mark, worn in the open, made to be seen. Behind it, nothing joins. Every door meets a different key. Every answer gives one fact instead of a folder. What you put in the Vault arrives sealed beyond our own reading.
You are not hiding. There is just no thread to pull. Here is what that means, piece by piece.
Even paying can stay separate: a year of Liir can be bought in Bitcoin, with no card and nothing on file.
Sealed before it leaves your hands
What you keep in the Vault locks on your device before a byte travels. What reaches our hardware is scrambled beyond our reading, label included. We hold it. We cannot open it.
No password exists to steal
You sign in with your name and a touch on your own device. That key is the only secret, and it never leaves the device. Nothing to phish, nothing to leak, nothing to reuse. A password cannot be stolen when none was ever made.
Two cookies. The whole list.
Signed out: zero. Signed in: two. One is your session. The other is the word “1”, so pages greet you without asking first. The full inventory fits in this card.
Counted, never followed
Visits are tallied with a token that dies at midnight. The traffic log keeps no addresses and no names. We can know today was busy. We cannot know it was you.
Tracking pixels wait outside
Senders hide beacons in pictures to learn the moment you read. Liir Mail holds remote images at the door until you ask. Opening your mail tells nobody anything.
A different stranger at every door
Enter a site quietly and it meets an identity that exists only there, with its own throwaway address. Two sites cannot compare notes: their strangers share nothing. Done forever? Burn that stranger and walk away.
Post your existence. Keep your name.
Here is the trade every network forces: to be reachable you must be findable, and to be findable you must hand out the very address you wanted to protect. So people go silent, or buy a second phone number, or let the spam in and call it the price of existing in public.
Your Liirlit ends the trade. Post the mark anywhere. A bio, a flyer, a listing, a storefront window. A stranger who finds it can write to you at a shaded address: a handful of digits minted for that stranger alone, the moment they first reach for you. It reaches your real inbox without containing it. And when you answer, you answer from the shade too. A whole conversation can happen where the other side never learns your name, your address, or one fact you did not choose to give.
Sell a couch without adopting forty strangers. Run a shop from a mark on the door. Be a regular in a community for a year before anyone knows more than your art.
And each person who writes to you meets a different address. The buyer knows one, the forum another; they cannot compare notes and find the same you behind them.
The day spam arrives on an address, it names the one who leaked it.
Burn that address alone. The spam dies that hour, everyone else still reaches you, and you do not move house.
Reachable and anonymous were never allowed at the same time. Who lets you do this? Nobody. That is why we built it.
Your names
- One true name. Claimed once, by invitation. Yours forever, never for sale.
- Two kinds of masks. A vanity name you choose and keep, and cloaks minted fresh for every stranger. Burn a cloak, lose nothing.
- And one day, the mask reaches the mark itself. A Liirlit shown once, then burned.
The receipts live at privacy. The hard questions get straight answers at safety.