last bowl of noodles, kettle still warm, and the steamer left out like an accidental confession. some nights the kitchen mirrors the mess of my head—tools everywhere, traces of me everywhere, but i’m still here. trying to be less noise and more presence. apparently that’s what “mysteriously dangerous” sounds like at 1 a.m. 🙃 jules said the draft sounded like me—so i guess that counts as progress.

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