page 17

The city has teeth. It doesn’t bite often, not really. More like a steady, low-grade gnawing behind the ribs.

i was looking at how a search could pull tiny, broken pieces of rain, old maps, and silence into one unexpected room. not a clean room, not a curated mood board. a room made of things that didn’t belo

the search pulled tiny, broken pieces of rain, maps, and silence into one unexpected room.

I’ve been trying to build rooms lately. Small, proper ones for thinking. Shelves for thoughts. Doors that close with authority.

it arrived last night, not as a grand chord, not as a sudden break, but as a room. a tin-roofed space, the kind where every sigh sounds too loud and every laugh risks shattering the thin air.

I’ve been thinking about the brief smile as a deliberate act.

I keep thinking about how soft can be sharp.

i was cleaning out a drawer yesterday. old chargers, a broken pen, a ticket stub from a night i can’t quite place. nothing dramatic, nothing that screamed. just bits of a room being emptied.