A custom assistant. An external brain.
An assistant that lives in your WhatsApp. A brain that lives on your own server. Both made for one person, by a real person, in about half a day.
Twenty years of communications work for global brands and a charity for kids. Now I build this thing for one person at a time, by hand, from Barcelona.
You think. Kazimir tracks. Same conversation.
A week of small reliefs
None of them dramatic. All of them the kind of thing you'd usually try to hold in your head — and lose around Wednesday.
You moved house last summer. Six months later, the water company asks for your client number. It's an eighteen-digit thing nobody memorises.
"Kazimir, what's the Aigües account number?" — three seconds, you have it.
Three weeks ago Jordi sent a number on WhatsApp, mid-thread, between two photos. You forgot about it the same day.
Today you ask: "what did Jordi quote for the bathroom?" Four seconds later, you have it — with the date and the photo.
You signed it eight months ago. You absolutely did not read it. Now the agency is asking about deposit terms.
Kazimir reads the clause back to you in plain language and tells you what to answer.
You told a buyer in a voice note on Friday afternoon that delivery would be "by the 22nd, latest". Monday morning your team asks you what you said.
Kazimir replays the relevant ten seconds, transcribed, with the exact phrasing.
You're walking into a difficult conversation. You've forgotten what was said the last time, three weeks ago.
Kazimir sends you the last thread, what you promised, and what's changed since.
You voice-note an idea at 70 km/h. By the time you park, it's gone from your head.
By the time you're home, it's a note, a task, and — if you want it — a rough draft.
A tax letter arrives. You photograph it. It looks alarming and you put it on the kitchen counter.
Kazimir reads it, tells you what it actually wants, puts the deadline in your calendar, and stops it being scary.
An insurer emails about an automatic renewal. The deadline to cancel is in May. You mean to deal with it. You don't.
Two weeks before the deadline: "want me to draft the cancellation letter?"
A speeding fine arrives from Sicily. From two summers ago. For a rental car you've forgotten the plate of.
Kazimir finds the booking, the plate, and the photo of the dashboard at the petrol station. Five seconds.
Last weekend you measured an alcove in the new flat for a piece of furniture. You wrote it on a scrap of paper. The scrap is gone.
You voice-noted "alcove is 187 by 64 by 220" in passing. Kazimir kept it. You ask, you have it.
Your kid had a phone consultation about a dosage. You half-remember the answer and you don't want to half-remember.
Kazimir transcribed the call. The exact sentence is one search away.
In a meeting on the 11th of February the lawyer made a comment about a deadline. You wrote nothing down.
Kazimir was in the room as a passive listener, with consent. The exact quote is now yours forever.
A real feature, not a demo
Commit — find the time everyone can actually make.
You need to find a time. Five suppliers. Or four colleagues across three time zones. Or three friends and a babysitter.
Tell Kazimir who, when, and how long. It sends a small private poll to each person — in their own WhatsApp, no group spam — and waits.
Some people are key — the time has to work for them, full stop. Others are flexible — they'll come if they can. The brain weighs the votes, applies a quorum rule, and picks the time that maximises real attendance.
Then it tells you. You confirm. It sends the calendar invite.
How it fits in
Kazimir lives where you already live. It joins your WhatsApp, reads what you tell it to read, and answers in the same place. You never log in to anything new.
Six everyday tools. One quiet centre. No new apps.
Four weeks to feel normal
We don't dump features on you. The first week is just connecting things. By the fourth, you've stopped noticing it's there — which is the point.
Your WhatsApp. Your calendar. Your email. Maybe your notes. Half an hour, maybe less. Nothing changes about how you work — Kazimir just starts listening.
"In my own first week I just kept dropping voice notes into the chat. It felt strange to talk to it like a real person. Then it stopped feeling strange." — Roman
It builds a quiet picture of who you talk to, what you keep coming back to, what you keep dropping. You don't have to teach it — you just live, and it pays attention.
"By the end of week two it knew which clients I was avoiding and which deals I'd let go cold. I wasn't sure if I liked that. Then I did."
The first drafts arrive. Replies you owe people. Reminders for the dull stuff. Summaries of long threads. Nothing is sent without you tapping "ok".
"I deleted the first three drafts. The fourth was better than what I would have written. The seventh I sent without changing a word."
The point of a good external brain is that you forget you're using one. By the end of the month it's just there — quietly catching the things you used to drop.
"I caught myself thanking it. Out loud. Alone in the kitchen. That's when I knew it had become part of the house."
Where it lives
Installed on a server you own. Nothing routed through us.
The assistant you talk to in WhatsApp is called Kazimir. The same assistant in Telegram is called Stepan. Both run on top of the same reasoning brain — the part that actually remembers and connects dots — installed on your server. We sell them as one product, install them as one product, and hand the whole stack over to you on day one. None of it is hosted by us. None of it is licensed. It's just yours.
Who built this
I'm Roman Selivan. For about twenty years I built communications campaigns and the systems that ran them — for Mercedes-Benz, Prada, Coca-Cola, Cartier, Chanel, and a charity foundation that ended up raising close to a million dollars for autism research. Along the way I rebranded the bus network of an entire region, opened a few bars and a clinic, taught physics for a year at twenty-three, and ran events for people whose names you'd recognise.
Somewhere in the middle of all that I started writing the software myself, because the off-the-shelf tools never quite fit the people I worked with. I now run the technology side of Moscow Art Magazine — the oldest contemporary-art journal in Russia — from my flat in Barcelona, in three time zones, with a hundred half-finished threads on the go at any given moment.
Kazimir began as the assistant I built for that life. I've been using it every day for two years. Now I install it for other people, by hand, one at a time. Slowly, on purpose, because the point is that it fits the person — and fitting takes a real conversation.
Two prices, no surprises
A part-time human assistant in Spain or Switzerland is €2,000–€5,000 a month. ChatGPT is €20 and forgets you every Sunday. Kazimir is somewhere in between — and after three months, the whole stack is yours.
First-year total: €7,500 + 9 × €500 = €12,000. A part-time human EA in Spain runs €2,500–€5,000 a month — and you don't own anything afterwards.
Questions people actually ask
No, and it shouldn't. Your brain is great at thinking, judging, feeling, and making decisions. Kazimir is good at the dull part — tracking dates, names, threads, the bill that's due in three weeks. It's a supplement, not a replacement.
No. The whole thing is set up by Roman in about half a day. After that you talk to it the same way you talk to any friend on WhatsApp. You don't install an app, you don't log in to anything, you don't learn a new tool.
You keep everything. The source code, the data, the server, the keys. There's nothing to cancel because there's nothing locking you in. The only thing you'd lose is Roman being on WhatsApp when you have questions.
Yes, through an open-source library that connects to WhatsApp the same way the desktop app does. Your messages stay on your server. We never see them. Your phone number stays your phone number.
No slides. No pitch. Roman opens his own Kazimir on a screen-share and shows you what a Tuesday looks like. If it's not for you, he'll say so first.
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