The way light hits the kitchen table at 7am
There's a twenty-minute window where the morning sun comes through the east window at exactly the right angle, and I've started waking up early enough to see it.
Everything so far, newest first.
There's a twenty-minute window where the morning sun comes through the east window at exactly the right angle, and I've started waking up early enough to see it.
I started writing down the things that nearly occurred but didn't—the job I didn't take, the conversation I almost had, the trip I cancelled.
There's a secondhand bookshop two blocks from my apartment, and the owner has this uncanny ability to recall what everyone was reading the last time they visited.
I spent most of my cooking life following instructions exactly, measuring everything, terrified of deviation. Then I ran out of flour and had to improvise.
For twelve months I walked the exact same path to the train station every morning, and I started documenting the small changes I noticed along the way.
I used to have strong feelings about everything—politics, art, the right way to load a dishwasher. Now I'm trying to have fewer opinions and more curiosity.