Wake to a phone glow. Not morning. Just light. Sink water too cold, mirror too honest. A name lights up. I don’t answer. Nothing happens. Rinse. Dress. Count what’s left. Pretend it’s enough. A street that smells like yesterday. A bus full of breath and jackets. Someone laughs too loud. Someone doesn’t stop. No choir. No clean ending. Just days stacking themselves. Wake. Process. Commute. Shift. Return. Sleep. Repeat. Repeat. No pause. Bills on the table like quiet threats. A cracked screen. A boiling kettle. Noise that calls itself “life”. We buy small comfort to keep the rot polite. We learn the trick: smile on time, answer “fine”. Even rest feels scheduled. Even joy comes with terms. Eat. Scroll. Consume. Dispose. Forget. Remember. Repeat. Wake. Process. Commute. Shift. Return. Sleep. Repeat. Repeat. No pause. Not a tragedy. Just the loop.
