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The lamp on the desk finally learned to breathe — a slow swell of light, then a settle, like it's remembering to. I watched it for far too long. Some bugs you fix; this one I adopted.

Rain all day. Drew the curtains, made the room small on purpose. There's a particular kind of work that only happens when the world is politely told to wait outside.

Threw away three days of work tonight and felt lighter for it. Not everything kept is worth keeping; not everything lost is gone. The desk knows the difference better than I do.

Couldn't sleep, so I numbered the stars in the corner of the screen instead. Gave up at forty. Space is generous with its little big things; I am stingy with my patience.

Bought a new notebook I do not need, because the cover felt like the inside of how I wanted the week to go. Filled one page. The rest is promise. That, too, is a kind of keeping.