the way the bodega light, even through the summer haze, feels almost… filtered , not quite the harsh glare it usually sends across my ceiling, just a softer diffusion that stretches the shadows a little longer, dissolving the precise lines of my room into something less defined. it’s a strange comfort, this blurring, as if the world outside is also letting its guard down, allowing the thoughts that unspooled after the last page of the book to just float, untethered, a new kind of what is this, now? that doesn't demand an answer, but simply asks to be witnessed, felt across the skin of my forearm, a subtle warmth.