Feb 24 2026

These days, I carry cargo. Cargo with a tidal vocabulary. My body that startles too easily, and a disorganized pulse. But I sanctify the disorder. One at an apex is aware of the drop but never used to the view. A conversation, then the quiet where someone should still be. People return bearing language for it. I recognize the contours like the ones of the summit on a map. I suspect that what presses beyond it paces its perimeter. Either a map has folded in on itself, or it has been drawn for a room that is no longer full. Or no longer warm. It gorges itself into a vestige. Doors still open and water runs. It’s excessive, too charged for the small rituals of the day. I think: Recognition does not cure, but it clarifies. Tomorrow could rearrange me.