MAYA YAEL FRAI
2026 / ARCHIVE
ABOUT ME ——
Maya Frai is a product leader working at the intersection of AI, consumer products, and culture.
At Google, she is a Product Lead in Applied AI on Search, shaping how hundreds of millions of users discover and interact with information. Her work spans 0→1 product development and scaled systems — from launching live sports on YouTube to building AI-powered discovery experiences.
Previously, Maya was an investor at Greylock Partners and Google Ventures, focused on early-stage consumer and enterprise AI. At Greylock she was an Entrepreneur in Residence, where she incubated a 0→1 AI search product from the ground up.
Maya is a founding advisor to re—inc, a media brand founded by USWNT players, advisor to luxury group Kering, and author of her debut poetry collection, Beautifully Confusing.
Born and raised in Miami to a Brazilian mother and Israeli father, she studied Computer Science at Cornell and is based in San Francisco.
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0882681281
ISBN-13: 978-0882681283
ISBN-10: 0882681281
ISBN-13: 978-0882681283
I died. Deader and deader.
"Little joke corpse!" Yeah, I
shrank beyond belief; I'd even fit quite neatly
inside the bowl of my ridiculously
miniscule briarwood pipe.
Ishmael they call me, Father
Ishmael. I'm such a pipsqueak, though,
they have got to be kidding.
Being dead means
very light housekeeping.
It's dark,
and cold.
Cold as the dawn of a new
Ice Age. A sage frostbitten
under gelid palmtrees. The pallor
of one's foibles.
Dark: A rat standing
at attention on the tip of his
hairless tail squealing bloody
murder without the slightest movement of his snout.
Cold: Across an almond-green plain
a procession of pale blue elephants
walking backwards.
Dark: A diminutive stringbean of a rat hovers
on dragonfly wings.
Cold: A wee purple face glares out of a winejar's
bulging glassy midriff.
Dark: Two perfectly identical human mouths
kiss each other to death.
Cold: A truncated male torso
gives with a significant wink.
Dark: Above clouds or
black sands. Idols of old religions
set up. Facing them,
horror in tar: the grin of certain dead people.
Cold ...—Polar ...— I'm entombed
"Little joke corpse!" Yeah, I
shrank beyond belief; I'd even fit quite neatly
inside the bowl of my ridiculously
miniscule briarwood pipe.
Ishmael they call me, Father
Ishmael. I'm such a pipsqueak, though,
they have got to be kidding.
Being dead means
very light housekeeping.
It's dark,
and cold.
Cold as the dawn of a new
Ice Age. A sage frostbitten
under gelid palmtrees. The pallor
of one's foibles.
Dark: A rat standing
at attention on the tip of his
hairless tail squealing bloody
murder without the slightest movement of his snout.
Cold: Across an almond-green plain
a procession of pale blue elephants
walking backwards.
Dark: A diminutive stringbean of a rat hovers
on dragonfly wings.
Cold: A wee purple face glares out of a winejar's
bulging glassy midriff.
Dark: Two perfectly identical human mouths
kiss each other to death.
Cold: A truncated male torso
gives with a significant wink.
Dark: Above clouds or
black sands. Idols of old religions
set up. Facing them,
horror in tar: the grin of certain dead people.
Cold ...—Polar ...— I'm entombed