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In his autobiography, Darwin says that for years he followed what he called a golden rule: whenever he read or observed anything that contradicted his conclusions, he wrote it down immediately, without exception. He had noticed that those inconvenient facts slipped from his memory far faster than the favourable ones. This isn't a flaw of Darwin's: it's the archivist we all carry inside. Memory lovingly files whatever proves us right and mislays whatever proves us wrong, and it does so without warning: you don't feel yourself forgetting, one day the thing is simply gone. The rule turns that bias into a physical gesture: when something unsettles you — a number that doesn't fit your plan, a good objection in an argument, a sign that the project is wobbling — write it down before your brain files it away for you. You don't need to answer it today: you need it to still exist tomorrow. The ideas that survive that notebook come out stronger. The ones that don't are better off dying in your notes than out in the world.