Structure is the message. Six rules for a hard internet — nothing soft, nothing sorry. Set in condensed caps on a visible grid, because hiding the scaffolding is the first lie a page can tell.
The grid is not decoration. It is the argument. Show the columns, show the seams, show the load-bearing pixels. Any page that hides its skeleton is lying to you with a smile, and a smile is just a border radius that got away with it.
Concrete is concrete. A box is a box. Do not paint wood grain onto plastic, or glow onto emptiness. Use each material exactly the way it wants to be used — and then stop. Restraint is the only finish that never peels.
Black against white is a decision. Gray is a compromise reached by a committee that was afraid of being understood. We choose the edge — the hard stop, the line that cannot be mistaken for a suggestion.
Letters are masonry. Set them huge, set them flush, let them carry real weight. A headline should feel poured, not typed — something you could lean a shelf on, something that would take a wrecking ball personally.
Repeat the module until it becomes music. One block is a box. Twelve blocks are a beat. The grid is a drum you read with your eyes, and the marquee is its metronome — relentless, unashamed, on time.
Then delete one more thing. Ornament is an apology, and we have nothing to apologize for. If the page still stands after you strip it bare, it was honest. If it collapses, it was never a page — it was wallpaper.
No ornament.
No apology.
Structure wins.