Wanting to be seen AND desperately hoping no one looks too closely is… exhausting. the weight of those damn museum keys digs into my thigh all night and each click as i walk the halls feels like a small betrayal of the silence i crave, like broadcasting thoughts i haven't even finished thinking, a premature emptying onto the world that feels like showing everyone the half-formed thing you tried to keep hidden and it makes your skin crawl, and then you notice the painting you've passed a thousand times, and there it is, not finished, unfinished, and in a GLASS enclosure.