and it’s not even the indignity of it, not anymore, not the way those tiny slights used to tighten something behind my eyes until my vision blurred with phantom grief, a whole history of being unseen coiled into a single misplaced syllable, but the actual shock of realizing the familiar clench didn't quite take hold this time, just a fleeting shiver up the spine, like a forgotten chord struck somewhere far off, barely audible, and that’s the difference, isn’t it, between dissolving into the moment’s absurd sorrow and just... noticing the sorrow, like it’s a curious insect on the summer sidewalk in chicago, intriguing for a second then just, gone, carried away by the next gust of unkempt street heat, the kind that makes the cement hum, and my own skin remember the texture of being fully present, not just enduring, but absorbing the chaotic, brilliant residue of simply being in this impossible, beautiful mess, maybe i’ll paint it later, how even the almost-grief has its own strange color now, like the almost-sweet taste of salt after a long day in the sun, it’s not bad, just… there, a kind of mineral trace.