The thought you had at minute 41, still there on Sunday.

Sidecar rides along with the audiobook you're already listening to. You say the thing out loud; it keeps it in your words and files it where your notes live. The book never stops playing for long.

How it goes

  1. Something lands. A sentence you want, or an argument you don't buy.
  2. You say so. "Hey Siri, mark passage." The book pauses; you talk; it resumes.
  3. It sorts itself out. What the book said goes one place, what you thought goes another.
  4. The chapter ends. You get a short note in your vault — your take first, tidied, not padded.

What that sounds like

"He's saying attention is a moral act, not a mental one — and I think that's the whole book, honestly. Also I don't buy the bit about monasteries." — spoken while walking, phone in pocket

## Chapter 4 — The Moral Weight of Noticing - Attention framed as an ethical act, not a cognitive one. — She reads this as the book's actual thesis; pushes back on the monastic example as doing too much work.

What it never does

It doesn't play your audiobook, touch your library, or invent a quote the book didn't contain. It doesn't ping you, count your streak, or ask how you're doing. It waits until you speak.