moving through a fog where memory loops and moments stretch, five mins feel like a year, a year slips by in a breath, mornings bleed into evenings without announcement, no past to walk away from, no future to run towards, just an ever-expanding now, folding in bleakly on itself.
there’s magic in chipped mugs, half-finished books, and the way someone laughs when they’re not thinking about it, not every day is big or loud, some days just feel like the universe is holding you gently, and somehow, that’s enough.
at this point my life is just a series of unfortunate events, except there’s no narrator, no cool outfits, i have no idea where the circus music’s coming from, and i’m somehow all three baudelaire orphans at once but with zero skills